Season Unending
by unicornesque
Summary: Four years after the Great Schism, the demon Enjolras and his allies claw their way back to the surface world, seeking to overthrow Lucifer with the help of the Knights Templar, a shadowy organization of exorcists. But Enjolras' ex is a Templar now and she's still mad at him, so... oops. Everyone's in for the fight of their lives. Angel, human, or demon, they are all damned.
1. A Game of You

**Notes: **In this crackiest of crack fics you'll find references to Final Fantasy, Game of Thrones, Skyrim, and just about every other sci-fi/fantasy canon out there. This is quite different from anything I've ever done before, and I totally understand if you guys end up hating it, but I hope you try giving it a chance, anyway! :) I've already written out the entire plot, but I am still very open to suggestions. This is the first of what, barring changes, will be fifteen chapters. I need your feedback and support more than ever because, in case you couldn't tell, I am so anxious and unsure about this. Enjoy, or don't, but please don't egg me! ;)

* * *

**Full Summary**

There are three realms: the underground City of Dis, home to demon-kind; the Silver City, which floats above the sky and is home to the angels; and, sandwiched between them, the surface city known as New Advent, a fast-paced, technologically-advanced land where humans and demons peacefully coexisted until the Great Schism, a ferocious war that would have destroyed both species if the Silver City hadn't intervened. The angels drove the demons back to Dis, but the tension didn't go away. Instead, possession became much more common, as renegade demons slipped through the cracks between realms and took control of unsuspecting humans, leading to a sharp increase in the crime and mortality rate of New Advent.

To combat this, a high-level government agency of the Silver City, known simply as the Metatron, recruited humans into a secret organization called the Knights Templar, training them to perform exorcisms and fight demons. Funded by the Metatron and ultimately answerable to it, the Templars lead double lives as ordinary citizens by day and exorcists at night- or, for those with seedier occupations, vice versa.

Now, four years after the Schism, unrest once again plagues the realms. The demon Enjolras and his allies claw their way back to the surface world, their eyes ablaze with the fires of rebellion. They want to overthrow the corrupt government of Dis, and they need the Templars' help. Things get more than a little complicated, particularly because one of the Templars, Éponine, is Enjolras' former lover, and it's also the time of the year when Metatron agents descend to train new recruits and check up on things.

What follows is a tangled web of adventure, lust, and intrigue, as war threatens to break out once more. Everyone's holding their breath and fighting for their lives, because they know one thing: angel, demon, or human, they are all damned.

* * *

_For Emma (girlbehindthescrawledletters on Tumblr), who heard out my idea, read the first chapter draft, made the amazing cover art, and provided encouragement and moral support. This story would never have been possible without her._

* * *

**Chapter One**

**A Game of You**

* * *

It was supposed to be a routine exorcism, just some wafered-out old bum on the corner of Mourning and Pine. Joly tackled and held him down quite easily, which in hindsight was the first indication that something was amiss; the dread inhabitants of the City of Dis usually put up more of a fight.

The arctic light of the stars mingled with the emerald glow of New Advent's skyline, providing a stark contrast to the tip of Bossuet's cigarette as it flared red-gold in the darkness of the silent streets. "Goodness," he marveled through a mouthful of smoke and ash, gazing down at Joly as he twisted the possessed hobo's arms behind his back and dug a knee into his torso, "gym's really paying off for you, isn't it?"

"You should join me sometime," Joly grunted, turning his wrist so that a black obsidian dagger, streaked with crimson accents, fell from his sleeve to his open palm.

His partner on the Night Watch shook his head. "I once pulled a hamstring while lifting weights. How does that even happen?"

"It doesn't, but your bad luck defies the laws of probability." Having had his fill of their requisite banter, Joly transferred his full attention to the trembling mass of greasy hair, filthy limbs, and malodorous rags that he'd pinned face-down to the sidewalk. The man's skin was mottled gray and slick with sweat, although whether that was because of the drugs or the demon currently riding his mind, it was impossible to tell. Maybe it was both; communion wafers addled the head and weakened the body, rendering humans more susceptible to possession.

Joly quickly released the man's arms and pressed the sharp point of the dagger between his shoulder-blades. "Feel that?" he growled. "This is Lady Forlorn. She has sent hundreds of your kind back to the pit, and she will lead you to it, as well. No doubt about that. So let's forego the pleasantries, shall we? Your name, sir or ma'am."

The hobo was already starting to writhe as the dagger pierced through his clothes, searing his flesh with the bite of holy water. "M- Mabeuf," he stammered in a thin, broken, human voice. "I'm called Mabeuf."

Bossuet chuckled. Joly's knee applied more pressure into the thin back, eliciting a tattered gasp of pain. "Nope. Try again. My partner over there has a rather spiky mace, compared to which, believe me, Lady Forlorn is the easier way to go. Let's get this over with, shall we? Tell me your name, demon."

Inexplicably, the man started to laugh. "Shall I tell you yours?" he whispered. _"Joly."_

All the mirth disappeared from Bossuet's demeanor. He spat out his cigarette and drew his mace from the folds of his cloak, the weapon gleaming sapphire as it always did in the presence of unearthly denizens. "What the hell?_" _he cried. "Joly, get away from him! _Fuck!"_

But the other boy was frozen in shock. He could only watch dumbly as the aged junkie's head swiveled a hundred and eighty degrees, although the rest of him remained motionless. From the wrinkled crags of a ruined face, eyes glossed over with cataracts stared up at Joly. Cracked lips stretched out in a toothless, black-gummed grin.

"_So you're a Templar now, are you?"_ The old man's voice had completely changed. It was now sleek and resonant, with a melodious undertone. _"What a pleasant surprise."_

"Who- who are you?" Joly no longer sounded confident, which was a bad thing when you were dealing with supernatural beings. But he hadn't been trained for situations like this, when the tables were turned and the demon knew _your _name.

"_Who do you think?" _The voice blazed like wildfire, grating on the nerves, shot through with the guttural harshness of an eldritch tongue that rang out into the quiet night and scraped the air. _"I am Prince of Wrath, I am the darkness in your heart, let me devour, let me consume-"_

"Holy shit!" Joly yelled as recognition burst through him. Panicking, he grabbed Bossuet's mace and clubbed the possessed man over the head with it. The hobo groaned before passing out, blood dripping down his temple.

"What's going on?" Bossuet demanded. "Why does he know you?"

"Shut up," Joly whimpered, pulling bits of rope from his pockets and hogtying the limp body as best as he could. He should have just exorcised the second he realized what the demon's name was, but he hadn't been able to think clearly. "We are in big, _big _trouble."

* * *

The bouncer leered at the dark-haired girl striding out of Club Montfermeil on five-inch heels. "Great show tonight, Shadow."

"I'm off-duty," she retorted as she clutched her black coat tighter around herself. "You can call me Éponine."

"Shadow's sexier."

She rolled her eyes. "See you tomorrow, Brujon."

_Fucking pervert, _she inwardly seethed as she made her way to the parking lot beside the strip club. He had no idea that she could snap his neck without breaking a sweat, but, one of these days, he was going to find out, the Metatron be damned.

Her phone rang before she could get into her car. Éponine frowned at Joly's name flashing on the screen; she'd been counting on getting a few hours of blissful sleep before her shift. That was why the Order was divided into the Day and the Night Watch, so they could all have time to rest.

"Did you get burned again?" she asked without preamble, holding the phone to her ear. "Put some ice on it and stop being such a baby. Honestly, Joly, it's just hellfire."

"He's back, Ep!" Joly sounded fearful and tense through the static. "Come quick. Enjolras is back!"

* * *

In what was informally known as the junkie district, the streets of Mourning and Pine ran into each other like two black snakes overlapping. At the intersection stood an abandoned warehouse, which presently contained a grizzled old man tied up on the floor, surrounded by arcane symbols drawn in chalk that glowed blue in the green fluorescent light, and a couple of boys garbed in the leather armor, hooded cloaks, and silver crucifixes of the Knights Templar.

In addition to his crucifix, Bossuet also wore a Sacred Heart locket and a Star of David around his neck, as well as a rabbit's foot bracelet on his wrist and a hamsa ring on his fourth finger. He was quite aware that the other members of the Order sniggered behind his back, but he wasn't taking any chances. Bossuet was born under the sign of the evil eye, a curse cast on his mother's womb by a rejected demon suitor, and he needed all the good luck he could get, considering his occupation.

The hobo drifted slowly back into consciousness with a soft, strangled moan. His glazed eyes flickered to the two exorcists. "Where am I?" he mewled pitifully.

"This is none of your business, Mabeuf," said Bossuet. "Be a good chap and let Enjolras take over, won't you?"

"_You are mistaken," _gurgled another sinuous voice from the old man's mouth. _"I control him. He does not _let _me do anything."_

Bossuet and Joly exchanged smiles. Their gamble had paid off. If there was one thing you could count on, it was a demon's pride.

"It would be in your best interest not to struggle against your bonds," advised Joly. "You're inside a guardian circle, and this wasn't a very strong body you picked, to begin with."

"_Strength was unnecessary to my purpose."_

"And what was your purpose, Enjolras?" Joly softly asked. "Possession doesn't really seem to be your kind of thing. Why did you surface?"

The man sneered, but it was a demon's sneer, all sly and cruel. _"To get the Order's attention, of course."_

Joly clapped his hands together. "Well, now you have it! So tell us why you're here."

"_I am not the only one who's here."_

There was a brief silence as the news sank in. Bossuet was confused, but Joly was starting to look rather terrified. "Where are the others?" he demanded in a voice higher than usual.

"_Damned if I know." _There was a snort of aristocratic disgust. _"We were supposed to surface in the same place at the same time, but my friends are idiots."_

"Some of them are," Joly agreed.

"I can't help but feel that I'm out of the loop," Bossuet whispered to his partner. "Who exactly are his friends, and how do you all know each other?"

"This was in the time before," Joly muttered. "Before everything."

The body on the floor started to flail, started to try wriggling out of the ropes, but the circle trapping it glowed brighter, and, finally, Mabeuf/Enjolras subsided with a frustrated sigh. _"Why have you not exorcised me yet?" _he drawled. _"Are you frightened?"_

From outside, there was the sound of wheels scraping against the concrete, followed by a car door slamming shut.

Joly perked up. "You're the one who should be frightened, Enjolras."

Éponine burst into the warehouse, eyes lined with kohl and lips painted scarlet, dressed in a black trench-coat and a pair of strappy, dangerous-looking heels, her hair wild and loose around her shoulders and her gunblade slung across her back. Bossuet _really _liked that weapon, but she was better at using it than he was. Even now, he couldn't help but admire it, the sharp silver line of the sword sloping into a hilt that consisted of a gun trigger and handle. It was called Dark Sister, and Jehan, who was Éponine's partner on the Day Watch, often recounted tales of demons giving up the instant they saw it.

Surprise flashed on the possessed man's face, but only for a second. _"Fire of my blood," _crooned Enjolras' voice, _"my light, my downfall, I have not seen you since the Great Schism-"_

Éponine had never been a subtle fighter. Her eyes blazing with fury, she charged at the guardian circle, her heels scuffing the chalk, and kicked the hobo in the groin. As he doubled over in pain, Bossuet and Joly couldn't suppress identical, sympathetic winces.

"Get out of there!" Éponine screamed. She picked the man up by his collar and slammed him back down on the ground. He choked and wheezed, and she straddled him and rained ferocious blows on his head, sending blood and spittle flying everywhere. "Get the fuck of there and _face_ me, you bastard!"

"_I can explain," _he said thickly. _"There is a reason I surfaced-"_

"No!" shouted Éponine, punching him again, so hard that she almost dislocated his neck. Her hands closed around his throat and she squeezed. "I am _done_ listening to you! Get out of this body before I kill it! Even _you _can't worm your way out of the dead. Do you really want to spend an eternity in Limbo, you little _shit?"_

"_All right!" _Enjolras hissed. _"I'm out, I'm out."_

The air around the old man changed, became a mist of inky smoke. In one fluid movement, Éponine leapt to her feet and drew out her gunblade, poised to attack. Bossuet readied his mace and shuriken appeared between Joly's fingers. There was an explosion of brilliant red flame and suddenly a demon was in the middle of the warehouse, floating inches above the shaking, rope-bound body he had previously possessed.

In his true form, Enjolras was lean, pale-skinned and sharp-featured, with golden hair and dark blue eyes. Scaly black dragon wings beat against his back, enveloped in trails of fire, stretching out under the green fluorescent lamps as he and Éponine stared at each other.

Beads of sweat trickled down Éponine's cheeks, looking like teardrops. She was breathing heavily, and Bossuet was just about to step in and do the chant himself, when she spoke in an astonishingly level voice, _"Enjolras. __Exi ergo, transgréssor. __Exi, sedúctor, plene omni dolo et fallácia, virtútis inimici…"_

He held up his palms in a gesture of surrender. "Listen to me," he grated out, but she only chanted louder, drowning his words, and she slashed at him, the blade producing a line of dark ichor across his chest. He tried to fly out of reach, but Joly's shuriken whirled through the air, slicing at his wings. Enjolras sank to his knees in a mass of hellfire, and Bossuet couldn't help asking himself why the demon wasn't fighting back.

"_Reus es humáno géneri..." _Éponine's heels clicked on the floor as she advanced for the final blow. _"Cui tuis persuasiónibus mortis…"_

"You do not understand," Enjolras gasped. "You do not know what's happening in the underground city. _Let me explain."_

"_Venénum propinásti," _Éponine finished, and she brought Dark Sister down on his head, this time pulling the trigger. The gunblade went off as it collided with Enjolras' skin, and there was a flash of sapphire light, and he was gone.

Silence fell over the warehouse. Mabeuf twitched on the ground as the three Templars looked at one another.

"That went well," Bossuet finally announced, in a chipper tone. "I wonder what he wanted."

* * *

In Chinatown, New Advent's emerald street lights faded into the glow of red paper lanterns, and the air smelled like dried plums and incense. Located in the mess of tightly-packed buildings and dim-sum stalls was a little souvenir shop called Mondétour- _my deviation, my roundabout way, _because its owner had a wry sense of humor.

A tinkling glass bell above the door heralded Éponine, Bossuet, and Joly's entrance into the shop. A petite, round-faced girl with shiny black hair cut into a chin-length bob raised an eyebrow at them from behind the counter, folding her tattooed arms across her chest.

"I gave Courfeyrac your monthly indulgences last week," she remarked. "You guys really need to learn how to budget."

"We're not here to ask for money, Musichetta," said Éponine, darting a glance at her fellow Templars. Joly was straightening his clothes and Bossuet was frantically tugging his brown locks over his receding hairline. _Dorks, _she thought, with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

"Weapons, then?" Musichetta's dark eyes crinkled. "I've just finished this pointy little thing called Excalibur, although I can't imagine why you'd want to trade in Dark Sister."

"I would love to see it," Joly said earnestly. "Excalibur, I mean."

"Nice try, old chap." Bossuet stepped forward, subtly pushing Joly aside. "We all know you'd sleep with Lady Forlorn if you could. I, however, was thinking that Widow's Wail is a bit unwieldy-"

"That mace," said Musichetta in frosty tones, "is some of my _finest _work."

"- But it's amazing," he backtracked. "Everything you make is amazing."

Éponine groaned. "All right, boys, time to stop embarrassing yourselves. Musichetta, we're looking for four specific demons that have recently surfaced. Is there any way to track them down?"

"Do you know their names?"

"Yes."

Musichetta smirked. "Old friends of yours?"

"You could say that," Joly replied. "They're actually friends of Éponine's former-"

Éponine smacked him upside the head. "Ouch," he grumbled, rubbing the sore spot.

"Yeah, I might have something helpful downstairs," said Musichetta. "Aren't you Day Watch, though, Ep? Why did these bozos call you in?"

"It was an emergency," Éponine said vaguely.

Thankfully, the other girl didn't bother to pry. She tore herself from the counter and walked over to the Templars, passing by a greenish lamp that threw her shadow against the wall. Unlike the girl, who gave every appearance of being a normal human, the shadow had a silhouette of large, feathery wings folded over its back.

Musichetta held up her wrist, the simple black rune tattooed there contrasting with the colorful, elaborate designs on her sleeves. She pressed it with the fingers of her other hand, and it glowed white-hot against her golden-hued skin.

A section of the floor slid open with an almighty creak, revealing a flight of stairs, and the Templars followed her into the basement of Mondétour.

The lighting down here was harsh and bright, like pristine snow. A varied assortment of weaponry stared at them: pistols and swords in glass cases, axes and flails on the racks, sharpened discs and throwing knives tacked to the walls. Bossuet and Joly looked like they were in heaven, but all of Éponine's attention was focused on a panel that Musichetta pulled from the corner of the room, bearing a miniature silver replica of New Advent, with what seemed to be a compass strung over the spires of the Basilica, the presidential palace.

Musichetta removed the compass and poised it by its chain above the model city. "This is an ansible," she said. "Say the demons' names, one by one, and if they're in New Advent, it will point the way."

"Jot this down, will you?" Éponine murmured to Joly, who retrieved his phone and prepared to key in the coordinates.

Musichetta hummed low in her throat, shutting her eyes. When she opened them again, her irises were blazing with pale diamond light. _"Speak,"_ she ordered, and it sounded like several voices at once, some deep, some high-pitched, some raspy, some soft, all solemn. It was the voice of the Metatron.

Éponine took a deep breath. In the time before, demons revealing their true names to humans was a transfer of power, a symbol of trust. They had been her friends, and she never thought she'd have to use this against them. But they had betrayed her four years ago; the Schism was over, yet the wounds still remained.

"Combeferre," she said. The compass swung, followed by the beeps of Joly's quick typing. "Bahorel. Feuilly. Grantaire."

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	2. Imperfect Hosts

**Notes: **Thank you for all the interest and encouragement! Do keep it coming, please; I still can't shake the feeling that this is going to be epic fail. I need motivation! :) Oh, and, before I forget, this fic heavily references Neil Gaiman, which I'm sure has already been obvious to anyone who happens to be a fellow fan. And there were some questions brought up in the reviews that I will answer as soon as I can, but I'm sort of posting this in a rush because I have school stuff to take care off. I hope you guys like this update! See you again soon!

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**Imperfect Hosts**

* * *

The Suicide Woods whispered all around him, the gray bark of each tree leaking black tears. This was the most depressing place in the City of Dis, but it was perfect for secret meetings because of its secluded location.

"_Hurting,"_ murmured a gnarled oak as Enjolras passed by it. _"Always, always hurting."_

"_I thought it would stop,"_ a birch creaked as if in response. _"I danced on the rope to make the hurting stop. I thought I could make it go away."_

Enjolras frowned up at the branches, trying to peer through the leaves to catch a glimpse of the souls underneath. However, his attention was caught by a chuckle.

"Stop trying to make them feel better," Feuilly advised, emerging from a clump of prickly bushes with pruning shears in hand. "You can't save everyone, these least of all."

He knew what he was talking about; as one of the minor untitled demons, Feuilly had been tending the Woods ever since the Schism that sent all of their race crawling back to the underground city. In spite of this, the injustice still burned on Enjolras' tongue.

"Do you not think that they deserve a better afterlife?" he asked Feuilly.

"I make it as good as I can," Feuilly solemnly replied. "I water them. I shoo Eve's ravens away when they get too fresh. But, unlike you, I don't try to give them advice. What good is a pep talk to a tree?" The clouds broke apart, and he blinked at Enjolras in the patch of moonlight that slid through the gaps between the forest cover. "The Templars got you good," he remarked, letting out a long, slow whistle.

Enjolras raised a self-conscious hand to the scar on his forehead. "They would not listen to me."

"Nor to me." With the pruning shears, Feuilly gestured to the jagged marks on his other arm. "Joly carved me up good with that damn dagger of his."

"Who'd have thought our little hypochondriac would become an exorcist?" boomed a deep, dark voice as its owner unfolded himself from the shadows. "Remember when he begged us to take him to the hospital after Grantaire bit him?"

Enjolras nodded curtly at the new arrival. "Bahorel."

The other demon grinned, all white teeth in an obsidian face. "It will be _Lord _Bahorel soon. Lord of Lust. That has a nice ring to it."

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose. "What have we discussed about the hierarchy? It is-"

"Oppressive and obsolete, yes, yes." Bahorel waved a dismissive hand in the air. "But you've _always _had a title, Prince of Wrath, so excuse me for wanting to savor my own as well."

Feuilly leaned forward eagerly. "Ishtar is really going to grant you one?"

"I don't see why not. I am the most loyal in her legion. I have given her only my best service." Bahorel grimaced. "Of course, if she finds out I got clubbed in the head by a Templar because I was trying to garner human allies for a revolution, she will exile me without a second thought."

"If we are finished gossiping-" Enjolras began, but he was cut off by the rustle of branches.

"Hello," said Combeferre sullenly. The voice emanated from under his arm, because that was where he was carrying his head.

Feuilly and Bahorel burst out laughing.

"My- my dear Duke," choked Bahorel. "You are looking well, indeed!"

"Got carried away, did you?" Feuilly wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "Got a bit in-"

"If you say 'over your head_,' _Feuilly, I will shove your watering can up your ass. This I swear by the Morningstar," muttered Combeferre. He was usually less antagonistic, but the Vainglory demons took their dignity seriously. He tried to screw his head back onto his neck, but it fell to the ground the moment he relaxed his grip. Howling, Feuilly and Bahorel clutched each other for support.

_I am surrounded by fools, _Enjolras thought grimly as he watched Combeferre go down on his knees and pat the soil in search of his missing body part. "What in blazes happened to you?"

"Your lovely ex-girlfriend," Combeferre responded. "I do not know why she carries such a grudge against _me. _I had nothing to do with-"

"Desist," commanded Enjolras. He was in no mood to talk about the past, not after this latest venture of theirs had so abysmally failed. "Where is Grantaire?"

"Perhaps he has succeeded," gasped Feuilly, still breathless from laughter. "He and Éponine always were on friendlier terms."

This statement was soon proven wrong when a flash of light and smoke pierced through their midst. Grantaire's stocky form was hurled out of the portal and flung against a tree. Groaning, he pulled out a shuriken buried deep in his chest.

"That fucking Joly!" he roared as he staggered upright. "Didn't even let me get a word in edgewise! I should have gnawed his arm clean off all those years ago!"

Enjolras shot the Marquis of Acedia a look of pure disgust. "You had enough presence of mind to direct yourself to our rendezvous spot, yet you could not even surface in the same place I did?"

Grantaire shrugged. "Easier coming back than going out." He regarded Combeferre's dilemma for a moment, then nonchalantly used his foot to nudge the head farther away from the other demon's scrambling hands. "So," he said in a conversational tone over Combeferre's vicious curses, "Éponine's a Templar."

A muscle ticked along Enjolras' jaw. "Yes."

"That makes our job much more difficult," commented Grantaire.

"I have a plan," said Enjolras.

* * *

"Good morning!" Jehan's gray eyes sparkled cheerfully as he entered the Order headquarters, which was hidden behind a secret door in the back room of the Café Musain.

Courfeyrac smiled at him. "Hello. Would you like some coffee?"

"Please." Jehan hung his cloak on the back of the chair and set his bow and quiver of arrows down on the table. "Good crowd last night. I actually got an encore."

"I'm not surprised," said Courfeyrac as he poured the rich brew and added generous heaps of cream and sugar, just the way Jehan liked it. "Your poetry would make the angels weep."

Jehan blushed. "You flatter me."

There was a knock on the door. The two boys checked their wristwatches. "Well, well," said Jehan, "someone's punctual, for once."

"But she forgot the code again."

"Can't have it all."

Courfeyrac went to the door and, for protocol's sake, fitted one eye to the peephole. Instead of Éponine, he saw two pale figures in black suits and black shades. He glanced back at the room; his sword on the weapons rack and Jehan's bow on the table were glowing with ethereal white light.

"Speaking of angels," he murmured, pressing a button on the wall.

The door slid open, revealing a boy and a girl who held up their badges in Courfeyrac's face, gold wings and calligraphic letters shining on paper.

"Greetings from the Metatron," chirped the girl, in a voice that was all sun and honey. "I am Cosette, and this is my partner, Marius."

Courfeyrac ushered the two agents inside. Jehan leapt to his feet, but Cosette beckoned him to sit down again with a gentle flutter of fingers.

After the two Templars had introduced themselves, Marius removed his shades. "Just you two?" he questioned, his green eyes flickering over the surroundings.

"Staggered shifts," explained Courfeyrac. "Some are on call." _And one's late. _He snuck a pointed glance at Jehan, who pulled out his phone, doubtlessly to shoot off an urgent text message to Éponine. "We apologize for being unprepared, but you've descended ahead of schedule."

Cosette had also taken off her sunglasses and was now walking around the room, her blonde hair gleaming in the morning light that scattered in through the windows. "We have been receiving some… disturbing intelligence," she replied. "The Silver City sent us early so we could investigate before training the new recruits. How is that going, by the way?"

"They're ready to come in next week," said Courfeyrac, filing away the other piece of information. The Metatron only divulged news as they saw fit. "Bit of a rough crowd, but promising."

Marius grinned. "Not as promising as our esteemed first batch, surely?"

"But of course," Jehan loftily declared. "We have served the angels well."

"You have served _your city _well," Cosette corrected him. She paused in front of the weapons rack and ran a hand over the pale hilt of Courfeyrac's sword, which was outfitted with a large and brilliant diamond-like gemstone. "Musichetta has outdone herself."

"It's called Dawnbreaker," Courfeyrac supplied.

"It's beautiful."

"Not as beautiful as you," Marius blurted out. His freckled cheeks turned red as soon as the words left his lips. "I- I mean- that is to say- Musichetta makes fine weapons," he finished lamely.

Cosette wrinkled her nose at him. Jehan hid his laughter behind his palm, while Courfeyrac fought to keep a straight face.

Now fully embarrassed, Marius cast around desperately for a suitable change of subject. He pointed at Jehan's bow. "That's nice, too."

"I fell in love with it the moment I saw it," said Jehan, patting the green glass surface with its fluted golden embellishments. "Its name is Nightfall." His phone buzzed with a new message, and his brow creased as he read it. "My partner's not coming in today," he announced to the room in general. "She apparently did rounds with Bossuet and Joly last night. An emergency, according to her."

"That's all right," Courfeyrac said quickly before the two angels could remark on what seemed to be shoddy scheduling. As the Order's de facto secretary, he was eager to present a professional appearance. "We have more than enough troops out on the streets."

Jehan glanced at him. "Would you mind filling in for her, if ever?"

"Of course I wouldn't mind," said the other boy. "I adore fighting by your side."

* * *

Éponine was in a sour mood, having forgotten to gas up her car after last night's mission. Her heels clattered furiously on the pavement as she walked down Requiem Street, keeping her eyes on the neon sign of Club Montfermeil in the distance.

She heard soft footsteps behind her and whirled around. A small dark shape was peeling itself from an alley, the jerky motion of its limbs leaving no room for doubt even before the green streetlamps illuminated its bulging face.

"Shit, shit, shit," Éponine muttered under her breath, her hand flying to the silver crucifix around her neck. Dark Sister was locked away in the trunk of her car, which was uselessly in the parking lot of her apartment building a couple of blocks from here. She could exorcise just with the crucifix, but it would take more effort and it was definitely going to ruin her makeup.

The possessed human drew nearer, and Éponine's heart jumped to her throat. It was a little dark-haired girl, seven years old at most, barefoot in a tattered dress. The similarity to Azelma was almost staggering.

"I don't have time for this," Éponine said, her steady tones belying her racing pulse. "I don't know about you, but some of us have to work."

The child opened its thin, parched lips. _"Budge up, will you?" _it said in a harsh voice.

Éponine blinked. "What?"

"_I can't move," _squeaked a different voice in response to the first one. _"Seriously, Bahorel's hogging up all the space."_

"_Me?" _emerged a third voice, sounding affronted. _"I'll have you know-"_

With a low growl, Éponine removed the crucifix from around her neck and tackled the child, wrapping the silver chain around its windpipe. The child shrieked, high-pitched and human shrieks, writhing as holy water burned into its flesh. Éponine tightened her grip, her palms sweating. She was not going to think about Azelma. She was not going to give these bastards the satisfaction.

"_Ep, please," _Combeferre's voice choked out. _"We just want to talk to you!"_

"Is Enjolras there?" she asked savagely. _"Is he?"_

There was silence for a while, and then those familiar melodious tones rolled into the air. _"I am here, Éponine."_

"You sick fuck," she hissed into the little girl's ear. "You know who this one looks like. You knew it would hurt me."

"_We needed to breach your defenses. This was the only way." _Master of the cold as he had always been, no matter how hotly his flames had consumed her, merciless and ruthless in achieving his own ends.

"_Enjolras!" _Combeferre admonished. _"You're not exactly helping us out here. Ep, listen to what we have to say. Let us out in peace. No tricks, I promise."_

Éponine swallowed down her bitterness as her mind adjusted to another lens, something it hadn't had to do since the Schism. "Do you swear," she said, in the guttural tones of the City of Dis, "by the Morningstar?"

"_Oh, come on-" _groaned Bahorel.

"_Yes," _said Enjolras' voice, this time much more softly. _"We will not attack. We swear this by the Morningstar, the Wolf, and the Mirror. I swear by my name and by the other side of the sky."_

That was as binding as demonic oaths could get. Éponine released the child and stood up. She leaned against the wall and waited, her arms folded across her chest, as the five demons emerged from the body in a swirl of smoke.

They came out wingless, in human clothes, all waistcoats and bright jackets. Something inside her clenched, because this could almost be years ago, they could just be hanging out on the street, whiling away the lazy hours, Enjolras' hand on the small of her back while they all sipped lattes and talked and joked. Just her and her boys.

But that time was past, obscured by months of bloodshed and unforgivable sins. There were sections of New Advent that were still nothing but rubble, nothing but ash.

"You're looking great," said Grantaire, grinning at her. "I didn't have the chance to tell you last night-"

"You mean before you fell on your ass and Joly sent you back with one strike?" Éponine coldly interrupted.

In the tense silence that followed, the little girl whimpered at their feet. Éponine bent down and pressed the crucifix to the tiny forehead, murmuring a quiet benediction. Free of possession, the child was soothed by the holy water, and she gradually fell into a deep and restful sleep.

_Azelma. _The name seared through Éponine in spite of her determination. Blood of her blood, the sister she hadn't been able to save, the sister the war had taken away-

She drew in a shuddering breath and straightened up once more, glancing at Enjolras. He was staring at the slumbering child, his expression clouded over with what almost looked like regret. For one horrifying moment, she thought he was going to apologize, which would have only made her try to claw his eyes out.

Instead, he cleared his throat, transferring his gaze to her. "We must speak with you and the rest of the Order."

"What about?" Éponine demanded.

The corner of his mouth curved into an enigmatic half-smile. "Revolution."

* * *

Courfeyrac had devoted his life to the Templars. After losing everything in the Schism, he had made the base his home, claiming one of the bunk beds as permanently his. He was neither Day nor Night Watch, but more of an administrator, as well as a substitute partner for whoever needed one.

The downside to this arrangement was that he could barely get any sleep.

"Please," he groaned into his pillow in a voice thick with despair, "try to be more quiet."

"Sorry, Courf!" Bossuet called out. But the clatter of utensils and the animated conversation didn't cease as he and Joly scarfed down their dinner.

Defeated, Courfeyrac sat up, scratching a lazy hand through his dark brown curls while he blinked groggily at his surroundings. At the far end of the spacious room, the two angels were watching the news- or, at least, one of them was. Cosette's gaze was glued to the screen; Marius' gaze was glued to Cosette. The shadows of their invisible wings intertwined on the wall.

Courfeyrac dragged himself out of bed and went to join them. As he passed by the dining table, Joly looked at him and said, through a mouthful of lentil burger, "Oh, dear, did we wake you up, Courf?"

"It's fine," sighed Courfeyrac. He plopped down on the couch opposite the Metatron agents. On the bulky television set, President Javert was railing against the growing drug menace to a slew of reporters within the emerald-glassed, black metal confines of a conference room in the Basilica.

"Valjean's thugs manufacture the communion wafers and blatantly sell them on the streets!" Javert spat out. "His elegant gold cufflinks are stained with the ruin of countless lives! I shall one day bring him to justice. He shall answer for his crimes against the State!"

"Valjean is…?" Marius prompted.

Cosette shot him a troubled look. "Didn't you read the briefs?"

Marius grinned at her in embarrassment.

Cosette blinked, and Courfeyrac's attention drifted to her eyes. They were a strange opalescent color, not quite blue and not quite green, mottled with brown and gold. Beautiful, even for an angel. It wasn't difficult to figure out why her partner was so smitten.

"Jean Valjean is President Javert's great public crusade," she said slowly. "According to intelligence reports, he is the head of the Five Families of New Advent."

"Five Families- the crime syndicates, right?" interjected Marius.

Courfeyrac had the sneaking suspicion that the male angel was only playing dumb in order to prolong the conversation with Cosette. However, he kept this opinion to himself, not wanting to risk an explosion of heavenly wrath. The Metatron could be scary when they put their minds to it.

"Pure conjecture, of course," Cosette murmured. "He's never actually been _caught _for anything."

"And he never will be," added Courfeyrac. "Valjean's more slippery than an eel. Not a patch on Fantine, though."

Cosette consulted the notes spread out on the coffee table. "Fantine Tholomyes?"

Courfeyrac nodded. "Rumor has it she's the true crime boss. They say she murdered her husband to gain control of his Family. But, for whatever reason, Javert's grudge is against Valjean."

Marius frowned. "He still shouldn't go around accusing him on national television. He could get sued for slander!"

Courfeyrac chuckled. "I don't think Javert's too worried about that. It would take the sharpest legal mind to successfully prosecute the President. The last great lawyers were the demons. When they were driven back underground, they took their silver tongues with them."

* * *

After depositing the child at the nearest hospital, Éponine began the long trek back to Requiem Street. Instead of her original route to Club Montfermeil, though, she headed in the direction of Café Musain, silently pissed off about all the tips she was going to miss that night.

The five demons trailed after her, chatting among themselves. Once in a while, they passed under a streetlamp, and their winged shadows blossomed on the pavement, which made Éponine glance around nervously. But aside from the occasional car and groups of yuppies too drunk to notice what was going on, Requiem was deserted.

"For our first side-along possession, that went remarkably well," Éponine heard Bahorel comment. "We should do it again, it's more convenient. Perhaps with a larger body next time?"

That was the thing; humans could think like demons, but it wasn't the case the other way around. The citizens of Dis never understood what possession did to mortals, how much it hurt and eroded the soul. Éponine wanted to whirl around and give them a piece of her mind, but her feet were killing her. The rough, pothole-ridden concrete was so different from the smoothness of the Montfermeil stage.

"Shall I carry you?" murmured a low and silky voice in her ear.

She shoved Enjolras away, stifling a wince as the movement shifted her weight and caused the shoe-straps to dig deeper into her skin. "You don't get to do that anymore," she rasped.

He shrugged. "I merely had your comfort in mind."

He continued walking beside her, with a careful readiness that made it clear he was prepared to catch her if she fell, if the pain became too much and she staggered against him. In the time before, when demons could still freely roam the surface world, he would often scoop her up in his arms after her shift and fly her back to the apartment they shared. The city lights and the glow of skyscrapers would blur beneath her in veils of silver green as she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her nose in his chest, inhaling the scent of sandalwood on his skin and the smoke that clung to his suit. Sometimes the cold breeze flung her hair into his mouth and he would spit it out, and she would allow herself to giggle while he sniffed in irritation, even as his grip on her tightened with fierce tenderness.

The memory changed in her mind, and suddenly Azelma was lying dead on a street of ash and blood, and Éponine was screaming, and Enjolras was walking away, wings stretched out under clouds that had turned red, walking to the fiery crater that had opened up in the shadow of the Basilica, from which emanated dark and gurgling voices, chanting a welcome to their prince as he descended once more into Dis, and Joly was holding her back, his tears dripping onto her face, burning, burning…

The old anger rose up again, and Éponine quickened her pace, ignoring the way her joints creaked in protest. She could endure physical pain, because it was nothing compared to what Enjolras had put her through.

At this time of night, the twenty-four-hour Café Musain played host to call center agents fresh off-duty and partygoers looking to sober up. Bleary glances flickered at the newcomers as they trudged through the doors, and then slid away like water off an angel's feathers. Éponine had no doubt that Grantaire was utilizing some of his power to remain unnoticed, casting his charm over their group, but she made sure to check that her crucifix was tucked safely under her coat. All it would take was someone noticing the silver glowing blue to start a panic.

She led the demons to the unused back room, locking the door behind her. Combeferre's gaze roamed over the bare walls and the bare floors.

"This is the Templar headquarters?" he asked.

"Shut up before I chop your head off again," Éponine snapped.

Grantaire snickered. "That was priceless."

Éponine traced a rune on the wall, but when the trademark glowing lines failed to appear in the path left by her touch, she realized she was thinking of the old code. It was changed every other week, and she had forgotten the new one. Sighing, she rapped sharply on the secret entrance. It wasn't in Courfeyrac's nature to give her any flack for being absent-minded, but he would look at her with disappointed brown eyes and that always annoyed her more than any telling-off ever could.

A panel in the hollow wall slid open, flooding the back room in the harsh white fluorescent glare coming from inside the base. Angel light, as it was informally known, used only by the establishments that were able to afford such a thing.

Instead of moving aside to let her in, Courfeyrac stuck his head out of the gap. "Ep, who are these people?" he asked, wagging an eyebrow at the five demons.

"Relax," said Éponine. "I've got them under oath. They want to talk to us."

"Under oath?" Courfeyrac repeated. "You mean, they're-" The sentence faded into a gasp and he leapt out into the back room, frantically tapping runes on the wall that made the headquarter entrance close again.

"Are you nuts?" he whispered to Éponine. "This is no time to break the rules! The Metatron has arrived!"

"_What?" _Éponine shrieked in surprise. Her voice rang out and, for a second, Courfeyrac looked like he was going to clap his own hands over her mouth.

She struggled to calm herself. "They weren't supposed to descend until next week," she said in quieter tones.

"Yes, well, you weren't supposed to bring demons here." Courfeyrac pointed a trembling finger at Enjolras and his friends, who were regarding the scene with amused disdain as they were too far away to hear the hushed conversation. "You are _never _supposed to bring demons here!"

"Where are the angels?" asked Éponine.

"Down in the basement, checking out the training room. Thank goodness they weren't upstairs when I opened the door for you. But they're going to come back up any second, and they're going to notice the glow- the _glow, _Ep!"

She fished out her crucifix. The silver material was now radiating shimmering waves of both blue and white light, and anything blessed with holy water within ten feet was obviously doing the same, including the weapons on the first floor of the Templar headquarters.

If Éponine didn't act fast, there would be hell to pay.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	3. Soft Places

**Notes: **

Okay, Q&A time!

So the Jehan/Courfeyrac thing can be read as shippy or just two sweet boys being sweet to each other. I'm not sure where to go with this yet... Their dynamic just kind of snuck up on me while I was writing.

I have also tried to address all canon/world-building inquiries in this post, if you guys are interested in seeing how I envision the weapons and locations: youarethesentinels . tumblr . c*m / post / 45274997144 /season-unending-visual-aids

Meela suggested that Enjolras and his friends be informally named Les amis de l'abysse, which I think is a stroke of genius. I will definitely try to work that in somewhere ;)

And since Ginny1107 asked how I decided who would be the demons and who would be the exorcists, it was a matter of writing out different scenarios and seeing whose personalities fit the roles. I hope it's working out so far?

All other questions will be answered as the story progresses :)

Thank you for all the reviews, follows, and favorites! I'm having so much fun writing this. Please let me know what you think of this latest chapter!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Soft Places**

* * *

There was no time to explain the situation, so Éponine grabbed the nearest demonic appendage- which happened to be Feuilly's ear- and dragged him out of the Musain. His friends rushed after them, looking puzzled, with Courfeyrac bringing up the rear.

Éponine hurried through the cold night air, cupping the crucifix in her palm as she kept a watchful eye on it. She stopped walking only when all traces of white light had disappeared from the silver cross, indicating that they were far enough from the angels to avoid detection.

"Ep, it hurts," Feuilly whined.

She let go of his ear, resisting the urge to apologize as he rubbed the sore spot. He and Grantaire had been her favorites in the time before, but there was no denying that they were causing her a dreadful amount of inconvenience now.

Besides, she could never forget that it had been Feuilly's vines that sprung from the sidewalks all those years ago and wrapped around the approaching Silver City battalion's ankles, preventing them from coming to Éponine and Azelma's aid.

"What is the matter?" Enjolras tersely demanded once he and the others caught up.

Courfeyrac hung back, keeping a wary distance, fingers twitching at his side as if they longed to grasp Dawnbreaker's hilt. Éponine sent him a reassuring smile and was about to tell him to return to the base, when Enjolras growled her name, impatient because she hadn't answered his question.

Her gaze swiveled to him. "I just saved your lives. The Metatron has descended. They're inside the headquarters right now."

"That's impossible," he said. "The Silver City has a strict non-interference clause, which they only broke during the Schism. They wouldn't be so foolish as to violate international law again by having ties to a human organization, so soon after the war."

Éponine decided that she liked this. She liked seeing him off-balance. "Who do you think funds us and supplies us with weapons?" she asked with a smirk. "New Advent doesn't exactly have fountains of holy water on every corner, does it?"

"Ep!" hissed Courfeyrac. "That's top-secret information!"

"Who are they going to tell?" she challenged, speaking to him but staring Enjolras down. "They're already violating the peace treaty just by being here. And they're planning to rebel against their State. That's _two _crimes. Lucifer might look the other way when his people possess, but anarchy is another matter, I think."

Courfeyrac paled. "R- rebellion?" he stammered, turning to the demons. "You want to overthrow the Morningstar?"

"That's right, mortal," Bahorel replied, sinuous and amused. "We're just a bunch of big damned heroes. And I do mean _damned."_

Enjolras frowned at Éponine. "By harboring us, by not turning us in to _your _government, you are also breaking your own city's laws," he reminded her.

"True," she conceded, shrugging. "We're criminals, all of us. So let's just keep one another's secrets, shall we?" _I want your world to burn, _she thought, her gaze leveled on him in the emerald glow of the streetlamps. _I want the City of Dis to be torn apart. And if that means helping you with your little coup, so be it._

His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, his blue eyes glittering dangerously. "Fine," he bit out. "But how are we going to speak with your Order, if the angels are here?"

"I'll think of something," Éponine replied. "In the meantime, you had better go back. Meet me again tomorrow."

"We can't surface three days in a row," Combeferre pointed out. "That amount of activity will attract suspicion. And if we _do _possess, how can we be sure that you'll be the one assigned to us?"

Éponine bit her lip. Okay, so maybe this was more complicated than she'd thought. "Well, you can't hang around _here. _You're bound to get caught."

"We could always stay at your place," Feuilly suggested.

She bristled. "I don't _think _so!"

At that moment, they heard familiar voices coming from around the corner. "Musichetta likes me more," argued someone who sounded like Joly.

"She told you herself, did she?" retorted someone who sounded like Bossuet.

"No, but-"

Courfeyrac checked his wristwatch. "They can't be coming back already!" he exclaimed in dismay.

This was bad. This was really bad. Bossuet and Joly knew what the demons looked like; they'd exorcised them only last night. Things were going to get messy.

As the voices drew nearer, Éponine dug out her key and handed it to Grantaire, because, even in the urgency of the situation, she was _not _going to give it to Enjolras. "The flat on the corner of Requiem and Bone. You still know where that is, yeah?" she snapped. "Go!"

Feuilly smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Ep."

"_Go," _she repeated, and they scurried off. "Don't break anything! And the Atlantis wine is off-limits, got it, Grantaire?" she called to their retreating backs.

The demons disappeared into the night just as Bossuet and Joly turned the corner.

"Hey, Courf. Hey, Ep," said Joly cheerfully. "What're you two standing around here for?"

Courfeyrac quickly changed the subject. "How was the Lament job?"

"Oh, you know Lament Street," said Bossuet. "Always a madhouse. But it was a pretty quick exorcism, although the possessed turned out to be one of Thénardier's goons and there was a bit of a mix-up because they thought we were the police."

"Yeah, his buddies fired on us," Joly added. He glanced at Éponine. "Your dad's men are hardasses."

"I don't want to talk about him," she said coldly. She had renounced her association with the Five Families years ago.

Bossuet blinked at her. "Did you get reassigned to the Night Watch or something?"

Courfeyrac and Éponine exchanged furtive looks.

"Tell them," she ordered.

He sighed. "I'm still not a hundred percent sold on this-"

"Oh, for the love of-!" Éponine swallowed her irritation with a deep breath, and then turned to Bossuet and Joly with her most charming smile. "Boys," she said, "how would you like to join a revolution?"

* * *

True to form, Grantaire broke into Éponine's liquor cabinet mere seconds after entering her flat. Although he did cast longing glances at the bottle of Atlantis wine, he stayed away from it; this new Éponine was harder, scary enough to give even a Marquis of Acedia pause. He, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Bahorel worked their way through several glasses of Babylon's finest, and soon they were all snoring in Azelma's bedroom.

What used to be Azelma's bedroom.

Enjolras stayed in the den, sitting on the couch where he'd once spent many a Sunday afternoon poring over legal briefs while Éponine dozed beside him, drooling on his shoulder. The apartment looked exactly the same, messy and homey and more comfortable than the high-rise he'd left behind when he moved in with her. He knew every inch of this place the same way he knew every inch of her body, every hollow and every curve.

The front door creaked open and she staggered in. "You couldn't bother to lock up?" she asked grumpily.

"I was waiting for you," he replied. His voice emerged thicker than usual because he spoke past a sudden knot in his throat. This moment looked the same as all the others, him in the den, her coming home from work. The amber lamplight even shone on her hair the same way.

But when she slid the deadbolt into place and drew nearer to him, her mouth was a tight line and her dark eyes were cold, sharp reminders that things were not what they had once been. There was a distance between them now, a distance of four years and ashes.

She eased herself into the armchair and removed her stilettos, unable to conceal a moan of relief as she rested her feet on the coffee table, beside an empty vase. Even in the dim light he could see the marks of the straps on her skin, how they slashed all the way up her bare calves.

"The Order will meet with you tomorrow," she muttered, leaning back with an exhausted yawn. "Well, some of us, anyway. Only those I trust."

He remained silent, watching her toes curl, watching her slender feet flex as they tried to coax life back into her veins.

"I missed work two nights in a row for you guys," she complained. "I hope you're happy."

"Don't be childish," he said curtly, because he still wasn't used to her thinking the worst of him. "If there had been any other way, I would have taken it."

As a Thénardier heiress, she could have chosen an easy life. She could have allowed herself to be driven around in limousines and to live somewhere with angel light instead of green and dark yellow. But she hated her family, hated what it stood for, and so she'd struck out on her own. He had loved that about her, that independence, that fearlessness. He'd only ever seen her afraid during the war…

"_Stay out of it," she begs, clutching the sheets around her bare form as the television in their bedroom crackles with footage of the riots. "Please, stay out of it. This has nothing to do with you and me."_

"_On the contrary- your people assassinated my people's_ _ambassador." He shrugs on his suit jacket. "Humans mowed Bonaparte down with vestal bullets. That was an act of aggression. I am sworn to the Morningstar, and I must heed his call."_

"_He's calling for war!" she bursts out. "If you fight, this puts a riff between us-"_

"_Shall I stand idly by, Éponine?" he asks, giving her a hard look. "Shall I let your people drown mine in vestal flame while I do nothing? This kind of weaponry must have taken years to develop. Your government _researched _how to kill us. New Advent was never our home."_

"_That makes it okay for you to destroy it?" Her face is pale in the watery sunrise leaking in through the windows. "Or to get your ass killed in the attempt?" She's trembling now; she turns her face away from him, hiding it behind the dark curtain of her hair, because Éponine hates it when people see her cry._

"_The situation may yet be salvaged," he says, trying to reassure her. "That's why I must await the outcome of the peace talks at the Basilica. I am one of the princes. I have to be there."_

_When she doesn't respond, he leans over the bed and brushes a kiss against her temple. "Lock the door and close the windows," he murmurs into her ear. "Keep Azelma out of the streets. Call me if anything happens."_

_She doesn't say anything, doesn't move into his touch. In that moment she is more marble than he could ever hope to be. Defeated, he sighs and turns to leave..._

"What are you doing?" Éponine snarled.

Enjolras blinked, brought back to the present by her vicious tone. He'd been so tangled in the web of his memories that he'd instinctively reached out to cradle her foot in his hands, like in the time before, whenever he was deep in thought and he would hold on to whatever part of her he could reach, distractedly winding strands of her hair around his fingers or tracing circles on her thigh. "I can think better when I touch you," he'd confessed to her once, and her smile had abruptly turned wicked as she purred, "We'll see about that."

_And then she'd-_

"Let go of me," Éponine hissed. She tried to pull her foot away, but his grasp on it tightened. He stroked her ankle, his thumb applying gentle pressure to her sole, and her eyelids fluttered as her breath hitched. Éponine could parade the length of a stage in high heels, could beat a man senseless in high heels- she could walk through hellfire in high heels, if it ever came to that, but at the end of the day Enjolras was the one who knew how to knead away the pain, knew exactly which parts to press down on, which ticklish spots to avoid.

_Yes, darling, _he couldn't resist gloating as his hands travelled up her calf, continuing their slow massage, producing soft gasps from her mouth, _even after everything, I can still do this to you, I can still make you feel like this._ Her eyes drifted fully shut and she arched to the side, her silver crucifix peeking out of the folds of her black trench coat, spilling its sapphire glow into the shadows of the apartment, blue light splintering on the tips of her lashes, blue light falling on Enjolras' face. He was breathing a little heavily as well, his gaze roving over her scarlet lips parted in pleasure and the slope of her neck as her head rolled back, his heart racing at the feeling of her smooth skin beneath his palms once more. _The fire in my blood, the air in my lungs, you, you, always you-_

His fingers rubbed at a particularly sore spot, and she squirmed and writhed, her movements thoroughly uninhibited now. Her other leg bent at the knee and then lashed out, accidentally nudging the vase off the table. It shattered on the floor, and the sound brought the two of them back to reality. Her eyes flew open, and then narrowed at him.

In hindsight, Enjolras really should have seen it coming. But his brain was all fogged up with the recent images of her and the less recent images of them together, so it was a nasty shock when the leg he'd been massaging sliced through the air, and the foot he'd so tenderly caressed kicked him square in the jaw.

* * *

_He's about to leave the bedroom, one hand already on the doorknob, when she rasps his name. He turns to her expectantly._

_She's still not looking at him. The white sheets flow around her waist, revealing the creamy skin of her back, her shoulder-blades shaded by the dawn so that, if he squints, they almost look like wings._

"_You have to come home when it's over." It's far from a gentle plea. Pride has made her tone sulky and begrudging. "Come home to me. All right?"_

"_I will always come home to you," he says, but the words are sluggish on his tongue because he truly has no idea what's going to happen._

_Her head moves slightly in his direction, unruly waves of dark hair tracing the curve of her chin. "Do you swear by the Morningstar?"_

"_Éponine." He wills his voice not to catch. "You know I-"_

"_Never mind," she interrupts quickly. "That was selfish of me. You can go now."_

_This time, he hesitates. She looks so small, sitting alone in their bed, outlined against the rosy-hued sky beyond the windows._

"_Call me if anything happens," he says again, and she nods._

* * *

She hadn't called. She couldn't have, because the negotiations fell through an hour after he arrived at the Basilica and the Furies tore down the mobile towers, plunging New Advent into a communications blackout as the streets howled with mayhem and panic. He had suddenly found himself leading troops into battle, dodging bombs and bullets, consuming human soldiers in swaths of fire. She had always been there at the back of his mind, hidden face, white sheets, black hair, sunrise through the windows and his name curling from her mouth like smoke. _Come home, _he would hear her say as ichor dripped into his mouth and his comrades shrieked in the glare of vestal light. _Come home to me._

But he hadn't. They were at war, and he could not forsake his responsibilities to his people. Even when he received news of the Requiem Street evacuation, he had stayed where he was, at the front lines.

He had done his duty, and it had cost him everything.

Now he was sitting on the couch in the living room that used to be theirs, rubbing his sore jaw as Éponine jumped to her feet and towered over him, all vicious eyes and clenched fists.

"I am helping you and your friends," she hissed, "because I believe what you're doing is right. But that doesn't erase what happened four years ago. This alliance doesn't change anything. Because of you, my sister is dead."

"It was the last stand," he grated out. "We were at wit's end. I didn't know you were there. I regret it, Éponine- truly, I do. I would have called it off, had I seen you and Azelma sooner-"

"Don't say her name!" she yelled, her voice raw. "Don't you _dare! _You can regret it all you want, Enjolras, but you watched her die. And you did _nothing!"_

"There was nothing I could have done," he whispered, confronted now, after all these years, by the searing waves of her grief. "The moment she fell, I knew I had lost you. That's why I walked away. I knew you would never forgive me."

"At least that's one thing you and I can agree on," she snapped. She stole out of the den on bare feet, her shoes dangling from her fingers, leaving him alone with the ghosts of the past.

* * *

"Let me get this straight," said Jehan the next morning, over the crackle of cellular phone static. "You want me and Courf to take the Metatron agents out on patrol, so you can sneak demons into the Templar headquarters and discuss how to overthrow Lucifer."

"Well…" Éponine held the phone in place between her shoulder and her ear as she fried up a couple of eggs. "Yes. That _is _what I want you to do, actually."

"I see." Jehan's tone was meditative. "And why would _I _want to do that?"

"Because with that power-hungry maniac gone, we can all rest easy at last?" Éponine hazarded, turning off the stove and transferring her freshly-cooked breakfast to a plate. "And the new government will be forever indebted to us, so that's going to make diplomatic relations much, much smoother?"

"It's just that- we'll be breaking so many rules, Ep-"

"Just go with me on this. We should hear them out."

"But I won't be there to hear them out," he argued. "I'll be exorcising demons with two angels looking over my shoulder. Ever heard of performance anxiety?"

Éponine smirked into the phone. "Yes, but I'm sure it's nothing you've ever encountered, lover boy."

"Why can't we have the meeting somewhere else? Like at your place?"

The plate clattered on the dining table. Éponine sat down and passed a tired hand over her eyes. "Look, here's the plan. You and Courf lure the Metatron away. Bossuet, Joly, and I meet with the demons at the base, because I looked over the schedule and we'll be the only ones there. The conversation will be recorded for you and Courf. You call me before you head back, and I usher the demons out the emergency exit. The angels won't wonder why maps and diagrams are missing from the walls, or why some Order members have suddenly gone AWOL during what should be their shifts. Everyone's happy." _And I'll be able to breathe, even for a few hours, _she silently added, _because having Enjolras here in my flat- in what used to be _our _flat- suffocates me. You don't know what it's like to have to see him here again, after all this time. I am drowning in memories. There are no pretty words for that, Mister Slam Poet._

"Ep, if this blows up in our faces-"

"I will take full responsibility."

"No," said Jehan. "I don't want that. You and I, we're partners. We've saved each other's hides countless times. You burn, I burn. I just really need you to know what you're doing and… to be careful."

Éponine found herself smiling, touched by his concern and sincerity. _You burn, I burn. _The unofficial motto of the Knights Templar, invoked only on the most serious of occasions. All for one and one for all. Ever since the Order was formed a year after the Schism, it had always had her back. But not this time. She could trust only Jehan, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Joly with something this dangerous. She needed people who would not only burn with her, but who would try to push her into a lake to douse the flames, as well.

When Jehan hung up, the smile on her face faded. She felt incredibly lonely, all of a sudden.

Her train of thought was derailed by a voice that had the eerie ability to sound like a smirk. "Rough night?" Grantaire asked, strolling into the dining area.

"Me?" Éponine snorted. "Look at _you." _His ice-blue eyes were rimmed black with ichor, his dark hair sticking up every which way. "I told you not to touch the wine."

"The _Atlantis _wine," he corrected, sliding into the chair next to hers. "Out of deference to your wishes, I contented myself with the grapes of Babylon. Although now they seem to have taken their cruel vengeance upon me."

"I'm not cooking you breakfast, Grantaire."

"You used to, though." He sighed wistfully, although with him she could never tell if it was just an act. "Whenever I crashed on your couch, in the time before. Your cooking was the only human food I could stomach."

"Why are you doing this?" Éponine burst out. "You're of the Acedia legion. Hardly crusader-for-the-common-good material."

Grantaire's long, elegant fingers drummed on the table. "My dear," he drawled after a while, "even the Acedia get bored. Perhaps this is the only game left in all the realms."

"Nice game," she said mildly, "considering you idiots might get exiled, or even killed."

He shrugged. "I have lived for less."

She didn't know what to make of his answer, so she left it at that and continued eating. He sat beside her as she finished her breakfast in silence, both steeling themselves for what this day would bring.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	4. Brief Lives

**Notes: **Amanda and Jazza made playlists for this fic! You can check them out at ( grantairedd . tumblr . c*m / post / 45531604453 /oops-i-just-made-a-season-unending-fanmix-enjoy ) and ( thegirlwithtoomuchfangirl . tumblr . c*m / post / 45483913890 / its-really-best-if-you-read-season-unending-first ). If those URLs don't work, you can always head on over to my tag ( youarethesentinels . tumblr . c*m / tagged / fic:-season-unending ). Wow, FFN's formatting really forces me to make my author's notes look awkward. Anyway, here is the next chapter! Thank you for all the reviews, follows, and favorites, and please keep 'em coming! :)

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**Brief Lives**

* * *

"Patrol?" Cosette repeated, glancing from Courfeyrac to Jehan.

"We thought it would be- sort of- you know- a nice welcome," Jehan faltered. He was a terrible liar. "You can see the sights and how we do things."

"We _are _a little stir-crazy," she conceded. "And your news stations aren't turning up anything useful to our investigation, so perhaps…" She turned her wide eyes to her partner. "What do you think, Marius?"

The other Metatron agent scratched the back of his head in that perpetually abashed manner of his. "It would be fascinating," he said. "I've never seen an actual exorcism."

"Didn't you fight during the war?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Cosette and I were still in training when the Schism broke out," replied Marius. "This is our first assignment. You're in the hands of rookies, I'm afraid."

"Capable rookies, though," said Cosette, smiling a little. "We graduated top of the class." She didn't sound smug, just reassuring. Jehan wondered how it was possible for so much kindness to radiate from someone. It had to be an angel thing.

"We'll have to hang back, though," said Marius. "Technically, the Silver City is neutral. The demons mustn't see us."

"Unless we kill them," Cosette added sweetly, making Jehan and Courfeyrac blink.

Marius laughed. "Excellent joke." And then the humor ebbed away from his features and he raised an eyebrow. "You _are _joking, aren't you? Please tell me you're joking."

"Oh, you! It's like you don't know me at all." With that ambiguous response, Cosette turned to the Templars. "Well? Let's get going."

After every single piece of New Advent's vestal weaponry had been confiscated and destroyed, angels were the only ones who could completely obliterate demons, as it should be. But the inhabitants of the Silver City had never used this power since the war; in fact, only the Metatron descended these days. Were an angel to slay a demon now, in this time of uneasy peace, it would be an international relations disaster if someone found out.

That didn't seem to bother Cosette too much, though. As they filed out of the headquarters, Jehan found himself thinking that maybe she wasn't _so_ kind, after all.

* * *

"I can't believe I'm missing work for this," Bossuet groused as he and Joly made their way into the base after receiving Courfeyrac's text message that the plan was in motion.

"You're an accountant," Joly pointed out. "You should be grateful for any opportunity to miss work."

Bossuet rolled his eyes. "Yes, because radiology is such a glamorous profession."

"Is there anything to eat?" Joly wandered over to the fridge and inspected its contents. "Oh, dear, we're out of tofu!"

"Eat meat like a normal human being, why don't you?" suggested Bossuet.

Joly shuddered. "Too many chemicals."

"Tofu doesn't grow on trees, Joly."

"Hah, I doubt most of the animal products we get have even _seen _a tree."

The two boys took their seats in the makeshift living room, a collection of couches, armchairs, and coffee tables that had been pushed to one side of the first floor, in front of the television set. The Templar headquarters was eerily quiet.

"The Day Watch does rather well for itself, doesn't it?" Bosseut remarked. "They number- what- ten at most?"

"It's not their fault demons don't like sunlight."

"One night free of exorcism duty. _One. _That's all I ask."

Joly clicked a button on the remote and the television flickered to life with images of Fantine Tholomyes being pestered by several reporters asking about her involvement in the drug triads.

"No comment," she called out to the world at large, eyes hidden behind a pair of black aviators as her bodyguards pushed their way through the throng. She was a slim, pale woman, with close-cropped chestnut hair and sharp features. "I said, _no comment."_

"What is your connection to Jean Valjean?" one of the reporters inquired, shoving a recorder in her face.

"Did you fight?" Fantine shot back. "In the Schism? Were you there, at the front lines?"

"Well, no, but I don't see how that's-"

Fantine's red lips stretched into a smile, all white teeth. "Then you don't get to ask me that."

"Hell of a scary dame," Bossuet muttered as Joly switched channels. "I heard rumors she was one of the Wretched."

"The civilian militia?" Joly shrugged. "Could be."

"What about you? Did _you _fight?"

"No. I was underage. I stayed in a safe house for most of the war."

"Good for you," said Bossuet. "I got drafted."

Joly snickered. "Of c_ourse."_

The television was now blaring some cheesy soap opera called _Estelle et Némorin. _Bossuet wouldn't have been surprised if Joly knew all the characters and storylines by heart; the other boy seemed distracted, though. He was staring at the screen, but his eyes were distant.

"I didn't really see any action until the last day," Joly mused, more to himself than to his companion. "The Vainglory legion blew up the safe houses. I got separated from Ep and her sister, so I went to find them… We were next-door neighbors, you know? In the time before. I only had a poker stick as I fought my way through the streets. Jabbed a lot of demons in the eyeballs that day. I finally found the girls, near the Basilica, but…" His breath hitched, as if he had run into a painful memory.

"You don't have to say anything more," said Bossuet. "No one should have to talk about the war."

Joly flashed him a grateful smile.

It wasn't officially their shift, so they were dressed in casual clothes. But no member of the Order would be caught dead without the silver crucifix, and these now began to glow blue around their necks.

"They're here," sighed Joly. "Show time."

* * *

The angels and the Templars had piled into Jehan's beat-up car, and they were now cruising parallel to the old railroad twisting throughout the length of the city. The bullet train had once been New Advent's pride and joy, but the tracks had been destroyed during the Schism and President Javert's government hadn't gotten around to repairing this particular infrastructure yet. Gnarled bits of metal rose up from the concrete, still bearing the claw-marks of the Furies.

"I find myself rather curious about your partner, Jehan," Marius remarked from the backseat. "Éponine, isn't it? She's the only Order member that Cosette and I haven't met yet."

"She should be at the base when we get back," said Jehan. "Courfeyrac's filling in for her today because, um-" He hadn't thought this fib through. He glanced at Courfeyrac in the passenger seat with mounting panic.

"She was injured during that emergency shift the other night," Courfeyrac supplied quickly, craning his neck to face the Metatron agents. "I told her to take it easy today. But she'll be on active duty tomorrow."

"I see," murmured Cosette.

Jehan suppressed a sigh of relief. Good thing these guys were rookies- no, good thing they were _angels. _From his past dealings with the inhabitants of the Silver City, he knew it was hard for them to comprehend that people weren't always the epitome of moral perfection.

"I shall have a look at her injury later," Cosette went on to declare. "Perhaps I can help."

Jehan fidgeted in the driver's seat while, beside him, Courfeyrac stared stonily out the windshield. It had sounded like- well, not a threat, not quite, but almost.

_I suppose it was wishful thinking to not expect a certain sharpness from the Metatron, _Jehan inwardly conceded. Courfeyrac's phone was in his hand; he was probably texting Éponine to develop a convincing limp, for all their sakes.

* * *

Enjolras cleared his throat as he stood in front of the television set, surveying the expectant faces gathered around him. Well, perhaps "expectant" was too generous a term- Bossuet and Joly wore blank expressions; Éponine had her arms folded across her chest and was scowling; Combeferre, Bahorel, Feuilly, and Grantaire merely looked hung-over.

"I realize that there is bad blood between our two species," Enjolras began, addressing the Templars, "and most of that was the fault of my State-"

"Try _all _of it," Bossuet snorted.

Bahorel glared at him from the opposite couch. "One of you people assassinated Bonaparte."

"Key words: _one _of us," said Joly. "Declaring war on all of New Advent was a bit of a knee-jerk reaction, wasn't it?"

"Shut up before I bite you again, Joly," growled Grantaire.

"Did you hear that?" Joly leaned forward, speaking into the recording device on the table. "Let it be clear that the Marquis of Acedia has threatened me with grave bodily harm-"

"Nevertheless," Enjolras continued in a much louder voice, "it is my hope that we can work together now, so that past mistakes may be rectified. After the Schism, my comrades and I returned to Dis to find it much changed- or, perhaps, _we _were the ones who had been changed, by our time on the surface. Here in New Advent, there is equality. There are democratic rights. That is not the case below." He gestured to Feuilly. "My friend here is Untitled, meaning he has no protection, no king or queen to speak for him when he is in distress. Unless he somehow garners the funds to buy his way in, or curries favor with one of the Seven or with Lucifer himself, he cannot advance up the social ladder. The Untitled outnumber the aristocrats fifty to one in Dis; they live in ramshackle huts on the outskirts of the city, assigned to the most menial of jobs. They are starving and oppressed. This has to change."

He nodded at Combeferre, who pounced on his cue. "In the four years after the Schism, we have tried to alter the system from within. But our cries for reform fall on deaf ears. Now we realize that there is no way to improve the structure; it has to be torn down completely, so that something new may be built from the ashes."

"Do the masses agree?" asked Éponine. "Do you have popular support?"

Enjolras nodded. "We have toured the slums. The people are eager for change. They will rise."

"Against the Morningstar?" She sounded skeptical. "Against your sworn sovereign, your High King?"

"It must be done," Enjolras replied in an implacable tone.

"The penalty for breaking your oaths is Limbo when you die, isn't it?" Éponine pressed on. "Not oblivion. _Limbo. _Are the citizens of Dis really prepared for that?"

"We shall destroy the Throne of Isis, and, with it, all the old oaths," said Bahorel. "We shall make new ones- more fair, more just."

Éponine's scowl deepened. "Yes, but what of those who get killed _before _the Throne is destroyed?"

"No revolution without risk, my dear," said Feuilly.

Joly shook his head. "You're all nuts. I kind of like it, but what's in it for _us?"_

"No more possession," Combeferre quickly replied. "Disarmament- no more threat of war. Free commerce between Dis and New Advent. And a new foreign government that is forever beholden to your race."

"I don't know…" Bossuet tapped his chin. "This all sounds a bit unconvincing."

Enjolras laid down his final card. "That's because you have no idea what Lucifer is planning."

* * *

They had zeroed in on a Possessed. Marius and Cosette were watching from a nearby rooftop with binoculars, while Courfeyrac and Jehan approached the twitching businessman who was stumbling down the railroad tracks.

"Let's not mess this up, shall we?" said Courfeyrac, glancing over his shoulder at the spot where the angels were stationed. "Our bosses are looking."

This was one of the more deserted areas of the city, but there were a few people milling about. One of them was obviously the possessed man's wife, judging from the way she called his name in desperation as a few bystanders held her back.

"Nothing to see here, folks!" Jehan called out cheerfully. "We'll handle this. Ma'am, we suggest that you remove yourself from this place. Your husband will call you later when he's at the hospital, I'm sure."

"I'm not leaving him!" cried the wife, eyes wild.

"The situation is under control," Jehan told her. "You have our word."

The woman was led away, and the street soon emptied. The two Templars planted themselves on the tracks, facing the businessman, whose name, as they had gathered from his wife's screams, was Mestienne.

"Poor fellow," sighed Courfeyrac as he slid Dawnbreaker from its hilt.

"Remember, we have to draw this out for as long as we can," Jehan murmured. "We have to buy Ep and the others enough time to talk."

"I know. That's why I said 'poor fellow.'"

Mestienne tilted his head at an unnatural angle, leering at the boys in such a way that shivers crawled down Jehan's spine. _"Escaped from daycare, did you, little ones?" _It was a woman's voice, rich and dark and oddly familiar.

"I used to run a daycare," Courfeyrac said affably, although there was a hardness in his eyes. "All my kids got massacred during the Schism." Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have divulged this information so freely- he had ever only told it to Jehan once, in confidence- but you had to converse with demons. You had to trick them into revealing themselves. Jehan suddenly hated everything about this situation, how it was forcing Courfeyrac to confront a painful past.

"_I, too, have children," _crooned the man in silky feminine tones. _"Hundreds of them. My darlings, my glorious legion, my furious army-"_

"Oh, no," Jehan blurted out, because only a very specific class of demons talked like that.

Black smoke swirled around Mestienne, enveloping his body. As he fell to the ground, another form rose up, draconic wings unfurling in the light of the midday sun. Her flowing, waist-length hair was as red as blood and her eyes were the color of burnished silver. Jehan had last seen her four years ago on the television screen, storming out of the Basilica and renouncing all diplomatic ties with New Advent, screaming her rage to the world in a mass of hellfire as her people cheered and howled.

Ishtar. One of the Seven. The war goddess, the Queen of Lust.

"I really don't have time for this," she drawled. "I'm just looking for someone. I figured he'd have gotten bored with the surface world by now. Are your people holding one of mine?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Courfeyrac airily replied. "But since you're busy, as you say, perhaps you should go back down and save us all a lot of trouble."

Ishtar smirked. "You would fight _me?"_

"Madame." Jehan fished out an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to Nightfall's string, pulling back his elbow as he took careful aim. "Anytime, anywhere."

* * *

"You cannot be serious." Éponine was staring at Enjolras in shock. "No way in hell is Lucifer going to invade the surface. You guys got your asses kicked the last time!"

"Only because the Silver City intervened," Enjolras retorted. "And, last time, the war crept up on us, suddenly and without warning. This offensive has been months in the planning, with all the legions behind it. New Advent will fall even before the angels realize what's going on."

"It's mostly just rumors," Combeferre hastened to say. "The Generals aren't telling us anything yet. But where there's smoke, there's fire."

"And I _may _have glimpsed what looked like battle plans the last time I was in Ishtar's chambers," admitted Bahorel.

Éponine, Bossuet, and Joly exchanged looks. There was an entire conversation going on behind those silent glances, those secret gestures- the kind of understanding that could only have been engendered by years of working together as a team. Enjolras watched them surreptitiously from the corners of his eyes, feeling rather odd. He had once shared something like that with her, a relationship where no words were needed- a grumpy frown in the early morning meant he needed to either make coffee or make himself scarce; a slammed door in the late afternoon meant she needed to prepare the fire extinguisher in case his frustration with work singed the curtains.

And, of course, in bed, the way her fingers tightened on his hair in a warning to slow down or scratched his scalp in a plea to go faster, the breathy little sighs that told him he was hitting all the right spots, the way she always turned her head to the side, eyelashes fluttering, when she was close-

Enjolras shook his own head slightly, to clear these thoughts from his mind. Éponine had another world now, one he was not part of.

Bossuet finally spoke up. "Suppose the invasion is really going to happen, and we stop it by helping you overthrow Lucifer's government- what is it, exactly, that you need from us?"

"Weapons," said Combeferre. "As much as you can provide. And, as demon-hunters, you know about our weaknesses- possibly more than we ourselves do. So we also need your help to strategize. That's it."

"You mean you don't want us to fight with you?" Éponine asked.

"_No," _Enjolras growled, the ferocious rush of protectiveness overcoming him too quickly to be stifled. "You are not going into the underworld."

She lifted her chin in defiance. "It's not like I can't handle myself-"

"This is not yet your war," hissed Enjolras. "I am doing everything in my power to prevent it from becoming so."

"My, how you've changed," Éponine remarked sarcastically. "Better late than never, I guess."

"Come on, guys," Combeferre implored, "let's put the past behind us. That's the only way this is ever going to work."

"Oh, I don't know," drawled Grantaire. "Compared to all this dreary political talk, I am _far_ more entertained by the sexual tension carnival that Enjolras and Éponine have got going on-"

"Shut up, Grantaire," the two people in question said at the same time, while still glaring daggers at each other.

"This is not going as well as I hoped," Feuilly muttered to Bahorel.

* * *

"_Exi ergo, transgréssor. Exi, sedúctor, plene omni dolo et fallácia…" _Jehan panted as another green glass arrow pierced Ishtar's left wing. This hardly deterred her from swooping down on Courfeyrac, who jumped to the side to avoid the fireball she hurled at him.

"_Virtútis inimici, innocéntium persecutor…" _Courfeyrac gritted out, face white with strain as Dawnbreaker sliced through the air, searing a gash in Ishtar's thigh. Shrieking, the demon reared back, waves of heat blurring the sky as ichor dripped from her skin. The two Templars weren't in any better shape; Jehan's knees were scraped to pieces from when he'd slid on the concrete to get a good angle for that last shot, while Courfeyrac, as the close-range combatant, was already sporting a myriad cuts and burns.

"You little fools." Ishtar sneered. "Your lives are so small and petty, and yet you have the gall to think you _matter."_

_You've got to hand it to demons, _Jehan mused silently as he strung another arrow. _They really like to talk. "Da locum, diríssime, da locum, impiíssime…" _

Her silver eyes narrowed as they caught his movements, and then snapped to Courfeyrac. Her lips stretched in a wicked smile, and, suddenly, Jehan knew what was about to happen. A cry of protest leapt from his throat as Ishtar barreled into Courfeyrac, knocking him off-balance, his blade slipping from his hand. She rose into the air once more, but this time holding the boy in front of her body, scaled wings and flame whirling all around them, rendering Jehan unable to get a clear shot.

"Come on, Jehan!" shouted Courfeyrac. _"Qui te projécit in ténebras exterióres…!"_

"I can't, Courf!" The nocked arrow swung wildly in Jehan's grip as he tried to sight, squinting against the glare of the sun. "I might hit you!"

"You won't, you would never!" Courfeyrac said over the sound of Ishtar's malicious laughter. "I believe in you. Come on!" And he raced through the rest of the chant, and Jehan was left with no other option, because all the words had been said, and if he didn't take the shot now, it would haunt him forever-

He blinked, and a single tear slid down his cheek as Nightfall sang.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	5. What I've Tasted of Desire

**Notes:** I am so sorry for the delay! I had finals and everything, but now it's my summer break and we're back to more-or-less regularly-scheduled updating. I hope this chapter makes up for the previous one's cliffie :) And I've made a new masterlist of my fics as well, which you can find at my blog ( youarethesentinels . tumblr . c*m / post / 46329576662 / my-e-e-fic-masterpost ). Thanks once again for all the reviews, follows, and favorites! I hope that after reading this installment, you'll let me know what you think of the story so far!

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**What I've Tasted of Desire**

* * *

The arrow barely grazed Ishtar's shoulder, but, since the exorcism chant had been completed, even just this slight contact with holy water was enough. The demon queen vanished in a flash of light and flame, her screams echoing through the air like a chill, and Courfeyrac plummeted to the ground.

In all his life to come, Jehan would always remember this moment, would always see it in his dreams. The sun high in the sky, a boy silhouetted against its rays as he fell to earth, shadows on the gravel and Jehan's heart in his throat, neck craned and eyes turned to the heavens. It seemed like the whole world had faded away until there was only him and the falling boy, and bated breath and silence.

Jehan heard it then: a mighty murmur, like a far-off thunderclap, terrible and ethereal all at once. The sound of wings.

Cosette swooped through the air and cradled Courfeyrac in her arms, effortlessly snatching him from the gaping jaws of death. She floated gently to the ground in a whirl of white feathers and golden hair, and deposited him at Jehan's feet.

Jehan dropped to his knees as Dawnbreaker and Nightfall shone with radiant, snowy light. He threw his arms around Courfeyrac in an awkward, relieved hug. The other boy clapped him on the back, looking shaken.

"Nice shot," said Courfeyrac, smelling like blood and hellfire.

"Thanks," mumbled Jehan, drawing in a trembling breath. "But don't make me do that again."

* * *

"Shit!" Éponine jumped up from the couch as her phone buzzed. "They're on their way back!"

The meeting ended on an unceremonious note as everyone else scrambled to their feet. Joly pressed the button on the wall that opened the emergency exit- a secret panel leading to the alley behind the Café Musain. It was through this passage that the demons were practically pushed out of headquarters, with clipped instructions to go straight home- home being, in this case, Éponine's apartment.

Once the blue glow had disappeared from their crucifixes, Éponine turned to Bossuet and Joly. "Why are you guys still here?"

"Um, we work here?" said Bossuet.

"Not during the day, you don't," she retorted. "Go, go!"

"But I already told the hospital I won't be coming in," Joly whined. "It seems like such a waste-"

"Would you prefer to explain this sudden change in schedule to the Metatron?" Éponine asked him silkily.

"On the other hand," Joly backtracked as he and Bossuet started scampering out of the base, "those X-rays won't read themselves-"

When she was alone, Éponine sat back down and mulled over the points that had been discussed. She had a bad feeling about this rebellion, now that the plans for it were starting to concretize. Even the minor demons had power of their own; they could kill if they set their minds to it, and Templar weapons would be a huge advantage- but, all in all, the odds weren't good. They would have the seven legions to contend with, not to mention the Furies.

And if Lucifer decided to wake the Nightmare Child- well, Enjolras and his ragtag army wouldn't have a hope in hell.

But, then again, her old love had always been a bit of a dreamer. Even in the time before.

* * *

_She first sees him from the stage. She's got the spotlight in her eyes and he is luminescent in its glare, scowling at the half-empty cocktail glass in his hand while his friends whoop and cheer. She sashays down the ramp and, although he kind of looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here, she doesn't miss the way his eyes suddenly snap to her and then linger on her every movement._

_Éponine's secret is that she dances only for herself. She channels all her rage and all her frustration through the beat, but she never loses herself to it. She sheds her clothes like a war. The men leer at her body because they think it's been made for their pleasure, but what they don't know is that this is how she supports herself and Azelma, this is how she puts food on the table and a roof over their heads. That's what keeps the aloof, slightly disdainful expression on her face even as she shimmies and grinds against the poles. That's why the patrons call her Shadow, because they can paw to their hearts' content, but there's a part of her that can never be held._

_Tonight, though, tonight-_

_Something about this strange boy's sharp features makes her want to unsettle them. Something about his elegant poise makes her want to rattle it. A devilish smirk curves her lips as she shakes the pins loose from her hair, letting the black waves cascade all around her bare shoulders. She puts an extra sway to her hips and the club goes wild, but she's looking at him alone and she sees him gulp through the haze of smoke and neon._

_It's a dangerous game she's playing. Her control is slipping; there's nothing but the music and his eyes. She's high on adrenaline. She's never felt more alive._

Remember me when you go home tonight, _she thinks as her hand snakes over the flat plane of her stomach, as she drapes herself on the pole and slides down its length, as his knuckles whiten around the cocktail glass. _Dream of me, pretty boy.

* * *

The front door slid open, jolting Éponine from her thoughts. She let out a long, slow whistle when she caught sight of Courfeyrac and Jehan. "Holy crap, I haven't seen you guys this banged up since… well, since your first exorcism."

Courfeyrac removed a bag of frozen peas from the refrigerator and pressed it to his cut lip. "It was Ishtar," he mumbled.

"No kidding?" Éponine flung her legs over the armrest of the couch and leaned back against the cushions. "The Seven don't usually go in for possession, do they? What did she want?"

"Said she was looking for someone," Jehan replied, running a hand through his disheveled strawberry blond hair. "One of hers."

Éponine groaned. "That would be Bahorel. I'd better tell him-"

She froze midsentence, because two strangers walked into the base, closing the door behind them. There was no mistaking who they were from the black suits and the way Dark Sister's blade glowed white on the weapons rack.

The girl was beautiful, in that vulnerable doe-eyed way that Éponine could never hope to achieve. But it was the boy who caught her attention, with the kind smile on his freckled face. His gaze drifted to her in mild curiosity and, suddenly conscious of her undignified position, Éponine leapt to her feet.

Courfeyrac and Jehan shot her identical warning glares. Oh, right- she was supposed to be injured. "Ouch." She winced dramatically, falling back on the couch. "Everything hurts."

The female angel rushed over to her, brow wrinkling in concern. "Shall I take a look? I have some medical training-"

"Um, no, that's all right," Éponine said quickly, scooting away. "My ankle's just bruised."

"Are you sure?" The Metatron agent appeared dubious. "Because it really is no trouble."

"I'm fine," Éponine gritted, trying to suppress a flicker of annoyance. Angels tended to get on her nerves in general; she wondered if it was a side effect from hanging out with demons too much.

As if sensing her discomfort, the other girl backed off. "You must be Éponine." Even her _voice _was sweet, like liquid light. "My name's Cosette."

"Hi." Éponine managed a smile- it was small, but hopefully it appeared sincere enough. "Welcome to New Advent."

The other agent came up to them and offered his hand to Éponine. "I'm Marius," he said. "We finally meet! I do hope you aren't in too much pain."

"It only hurts when I walk," she quipped, shaking his hand. She was a little bit dazzled by how green his eyes were, and so she was kind of sorry when he let go.

"It is extraordinary that one of the Seven would surface," said Marius, turning to Courfeyrac and Jehan. "Did the Courtesan say anything of note?"

"Perhaps she might have let something slip?" added Cosette.

Courfeyrac glanced over the angels' shoulders at Éponine, who frantically shook her head. "No," he replied at last, with a shrug. "She was probably just bored. Aren't they always?"

* * *

"I'm so _bored!" _Grantaire moaned, flinging an arm across his forehead as he leaned back on the couch in Éponine's apartment, every inch a portrait of despair. Indeed, after a few days of being cooped up, with the liquor supply running dangerously low, the Marquis of Acedia looked like he was on the verge of tears. "There's nothing to _do."_

"Now, now," said Combeferre soothingly, "we all knew this would involve a fair amount of waiting. At least we're comfortable." He brought a glass of scotch to his lips and blew on it; a frosty vapor emerged from his mouth, covering the inside of the glass in a sheen of ice. The Duke of Vainglory allowed himself a small smile at this simple pleasure.

"I am not comforted at all," sighed Grantaire. "I feel a fatigue of the mind coming on. A desolation of the spirit, if you will."

"At least you feel something, for once in your life," Feuilly told him with good humor. "Look, Enjolras, our little boy is growing up. Aren't you proud?"

Enjolras barely glanced up from the newspaper he was reading. "I could be prouder."

The front door burst open and Bahorel stormed in. Enjolras realized he'd forgotten to slide the deadbolt into place again, but after four years of living in the City of Dis, where the chambers were guarded by imps, he'd fallen out of the habit of locking up.

"Damn Night Watch," snarled Bahorel. "Bastards almost got me. Last time I'm surfacing in Chinatown, let me tell you that. The place just felt… wrong." He shuddered. "Like there was someone there."

"I wouldn't be surprised," said Grantaire, because, in demon-speak, _someone there _could only mean one thing. "Angels everywhere, my friend. It's enough to drive anyone mad."

Feuilly looked at Bahorel. "Were you able to soothe Ishtar's offended sensibilities?"

"As much as she can be soothed." Bahorel sounded grumpy. "Enjolras, if I get exiled over this-"

"The Courtesan would never exile you," Combeferre interrupted with a grin. "She _loves _you."

"That's even worse." Bahorel shuddered. "That's not something to joke about."

There was a brief silence as the five of them contemplated the all-consuming nature of Ishtar's passions. There were trees in the Suicide Woods that still called her name in longing. There were demons languishing in the Tartarus Pits that bore her mark. She was perhaps the most feared of the Seven; she was beauty and terror and doom.

"Yes, all right," said Combeferre. "I shouldn't have said that. My apologies."

The topic having been exhausted, the group retreated once more into quiet ennui. Bahorel put his hands on his hips, examining the desultory scene before him. "But such long faces! Luckily, I know just the thing to make you boys feel better. Come on."

Feuilly perked up. "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere!" snapped Enjolras. "We aren't even supposed to be on the surface."

"I passed by Club Montfermeil on my way here," said Bahorel, "and it looks really- dare I say it?- _happening _tonight."

"Good sir, I like the way you talk!" said Grantaire.

Enjolras put down his newspaper. "Out of the question."

"It's Saturday, isn't it?" said Feuilly. "That means it's Fedora Night!"

"We are not going to Montfermeil," said Enjolras implacably.

Combeferre leaned closer to him. "Surely there would be no harm in taking these kids out for a walk?" he said in an undertone. "You know how twitchy they can get."

"And if we are discovered?" Enjolras asked, voice cold. "If we run into the Night Watch? Everything we have done so far will be for naught, especially with the Metatron in the city."

"Ep told me yesterday that Requiem is Bossuet and Joly's beat," Combeferre pointed out. "They already know us. As long as we stick to the route, it's going to be fine. If we stay within these walls for a minute longer, I fear you and I will have a mutiny on our hands."

"Speaking of Éponine-"

"She wouldn't make a scene. She's in this just as much as we are."

Enjolras' lip curled. "All right. Go with them. I care not."

Combeferre paled. "You can't leave me in charge of these- these idiots!"

Enjolras glanced at Bahorel, Feuilly, and Grantaire, who were intently leaning forward in an attempt to hear the conversation. Once his eyes landed on them, they immediately sprung back, their postures adopting various degrees of nonchalance.

Feuilly even tried to whistle.

Enjolras sighed and held up his palms in surrender.

* * *

The demons soon discovered that, at some point in the last four years, Club Montfermeil had done away with Fedora Night, much to Feuilly's chagrin.

"Now we just look like morons," he groused.

Bahorel patted him on the arm. "I happen to think you appear very dashing," he loyally proclaimed.

However, as they slipped past the bouncer, unnoticed due to Grantaire's projected shield, all five of them casually removed their hats and stuffed the offending articles down their pockets.

Most of Requiem Street had gone untouched during the war, because it had been evacuated and because it was rather out of the way of the city's main thoroughfares, so it wasn't much of a surprise that Montfermeil looked the same as it always had. Fake potted palms lined the gold walls, their plastic fronds shining in the smoky neon light that clung like mist to the red velvet upholstery. Men with loosened ties and rolled-up sleeves crowded around the stage, which had a catwalk stretching all the way into the middle of the room.

"I have missed this place!" Bahorel crowed as they found seats at a corner table. He looked happy, perhaps even more solid than usual. In the same way that Enjolras, Prince of Wrath, was in his element in rallies and courtrooms, Bahorel of the Lust legion reveled in establishments that reeked of smoke and sex.

"The usual, boys?" said Combeferre when the waitress arrived. The rest nodded, and he ordered their drinks from memory.

"Oh, this takes me back," Feuilly remarked. "Those two weeks we spent every night here, until Enjolras finally worked up the guts to talk to Éponine!"

Grantaire laughed. "I remember I looked around and went, 'Hey, where did Enjolras go?' And then we saw him walking to her at the bar, cool as you please-"

"- But his hands were in his pockets!" said Bahorel. "Which meant they were shaking!"

"I called him!" Feuilly added excitedly. "I said, 'Hey, Enjolras!' And he turned back to us, and his face-!" He contorted his features into a comical parody of fear. "He was absolutely petrified!"

"That, my friends," said Grantaire through rich chuckles, "that was the night our prince became a man."

"Hmm, no," said Bahorel, shaking his head, "to my knowledge, it took much, _much _longer than that."

"Ep wouldn't even give him the time of the day at first," said Feuilly.

"Well, of course not." Combeferre smirked, unable to resist joining in even though he'd been darting glances at Enjolras' deepening frown. "He spilled his drink all over her. What lady's heart would not skip a beat?"

Enjolras' clenched fist smacked into the surface of the table, causing his friends to flinch. "One drink," he hissed. "One drink, and then we are going _home."_

"Home?" Grantaire repeated enigmatically, raising an eyebrow. He seemed like he was about to say more, but Combeferre shushed him.

Enjolras' temper only worsened, thanks to his own error. When had he once again started thinking of the little flat on the corner of Requiem and Bone as _home? _He couldn't let the past get to him, not now, not when he already had so much on his mind.

Coming here tonight was a mistake. Hell, asking Éponine for help in the first place had been a mistake. At the time, he'd truly thought there was no other choice, but anything else would have been preferable to seeing her every day, to hearing her move around in the next room, to catching traces of her amber perfume in the air even after she had left the apartment. Although she occasionally spoke to Combeferre and Grantaire, and she had been the one who told Bahorel to go back to Dis and placate Ishtar, she skirted around the demons for the most part, avoided sharing the same immediate space with them for too long. She was practically a ghost in her own house.

But, sometimes, Grantaire would manage to make her crack a smile. Sometimes, she would hum while she cooked breakfast. And Enjolras would have to turn away, from the curve of her lips, from the sound of her voice, from all of the things that he had lost.

And now here he was, back in the place where he had first met her.

The waitress returned with their drinks as the lights dimmed. The music changed, the bass becoming a sensual thrum that echoed through the veins, and the crowd murmured in anticipation.

"After all these years," said Bahorel with a smoky grin, "I finally get to see Ep dance again."

Enjolras growled low in the back of his throat, an instinctive warning to the other demon to back off, but before he could make good on the threat, Éponine's slender form appeared on the stage and all rational thought fled from his system.

They called her Shadow, but she danced like fire. Her dark eyes flickered over the audience with just the slightest hint of contempt as her sinuous movements harnessed the snaking rhythm. Bit by bit her clothes came off, unveiling smooth skin and legs that seemed to go on forever. Hands rose up all around as men begged her to come nearer, as men tucked paper bills into her garters, and Enjolras was once again filled with all the old rage, all the old bitterness. He wanted to claw the eyes out of everyone in this club, his friends included. She had told him once that this was her job and he would just have to deal, but he had never been good at this part, at sharing her.

Only now it was so much worse, because he wasn't the one she would be sleeping next to that night. His clothes weren't what her makeup would rub off on when they got home. He had once been able to console himself with all of that, with the half-awake way she smacked him upside the head when his alarm went off in the mornings, with the parts of her that she never gave to anybody else.

Gone, all gone. Lost the moment he gave the order that blew up the street where Azelma was. Lost the moment the bullet shattered Bonaparte's skull. Lost the moment he broke his promise to come home.

In order for his revolution to succeed, he would have to focus on it. He couldn't have her clouding his judgment. He had to forget the past, if he ever wanted to be absolved from its sins.

But perhaps there was a more selfish reason. Perhaps he had given in unwillingly to love, in the time before, and it had torn all his defenses apart, had left him reeling and exhausted, until he was no better than those trapped in the Tartarus Pits, calling out the name of a goddess who would let them burn, who would show them no mercy and grant them no reprieve.

_I can't do this again, _Enjolras thought bleakly, staring at Éponine as she ran her hands through her hair, the tangle of dark locks trailing down the arms that she lifted to the ceiling. _I can't do this anymore. I have to let you go._

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	6. Sleep of the Just

**Notes: **The lovely Emma made a beautiful graphic for this story ( girlbehindthescrawledletters . tumblr . c*m / post / 47039947639 / dont-want-to-let-you-down-but-i-am-hell-bound ) and she also beta-read this chapter, so go worship her because she is amazing! Thanks for the reviews, follows, and favorites, guys. And please let me know what you think of this latest update :)

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**Sleep of the Just**

* * *

"It's okay, Ep," Araceli tried to console her as she hobbled into the dressing room, red-faced. "It happens."

"Bite me," Éponine muttered, too embarrassed to inject any real vehemence into her tone. It had been a good routine until she spotted the five demons at the corner table. She'd been so shocked to see them there that she'd missed a step and fallen on her ass, right there on the stage, in front of the whole club. Her ankle really _was _throbbing now. Karma was a bitch.

"No more heels for you tonight," said Araceli.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Éponine eased her feet out of the stilettos and slipped into a pair of spare ballet flats.

"What made you trip, anyway?"

"I saw someone."

"Ex-boyfriend?" the other girl asked sympathetically.

_You have no idea, _Éponine thought, doing up the buttons of her black trench-coat. Instead of answering the question, she bid Araceli goodbye and made her way back to the main room of the club, slinking past a thunderous-faced Gillenormand.

"You disappointed me greatly tonight, my girl," the manager admonished as he crossed his arms.

"Won't happen again," said Éponine.

"See that it doesn't."

_Pompous old fart, _she fumed, shoving her way through the crowd. When she reached their table, Bahorel, Feuilly, and Grantaire broke out into applause.

"A stunning performance!" Bahorel exclaimed.

"You really wiped the floor, Ep," said Feuilly.

"And you really need to work on your jokes," Éponine shot back.

"I keep telling him that," Combeferre mildly remarked. "Just because something sounds funny in your head, Feuilly, doesn't mean you have to say it out loud."

"Key word being 'head'?" Feuilly quipped with a pointed glance at the faint scar circling Combeferre's neck.

Combeferre groaned.

"You walked right into that one, my friend," Grantaire told him with a smirk.

Enjolras had remained silent thus far. Éponine glared at him, but he refused to meet her eyes.

"You let these little shits talk you into going out?" she snapped. "Are you insane? You could've gotten caught!"

"I apologize," he said softly, staring at his drink. "I made a mistake."

And the thing was, she couldn't tell if he was sorry for tonight or for the war, for making her stumble or for how they had ended.

Too much bad blood. Too many mistakes.

"Let's go," Éponine mumbled. "I need to get out of here."

* * *

"I see your driving hasn't improved," said Grantaire from the backseat as Éponine's car swerved through the blocks.

"What are you talking about?" wondered Éponine. "It's not that bad."

"You almost killed a man," said Combeferre, sounding a bit stifled in his cramped position between Feuilly and Bahorel.

She waved a dismissive hand, swatting at the reminder as if it were a bug. "He shouldn't have been standing so close to the curb-"

"Éponine!" Enjolras bit out from the passenger seat. "Both hands on the wheel!"

"Lighten up," she grumbled. "It's not exactly rush hour." It was, in fact, that shaded and quiet time between three in the morning and dawn, and the roads were deserted, except for the truck that loomed in front of them when they turned the corner.

"What is that guy's problem?" Bahorel complained. The large, ungainly vehicle was practically crawling along the concrete, refusing to pick up speed even after several impatient honks from Éponine.

She growled, and Enjolras glanced over at her. Whatever he saw on her face made him suck in a sharp breath.

"No," he said. "It isn't worth it."

Ignoring him, Éponine veered the car from its path, slowly nosing into the next lane.

He gritted his teeth. "How many times must I tell you? Never overtake on the left."

"I can do it," said Éponine, narrowing her eyes at the green-lit road, judging the distance. _And I never listened to you before, and I am damn well not going to start now._

The four demons at the back were already scrambling for their seatbelts. "I am far too young to die," murmured Combeferre.

Éponine floored the accelerator, and tires sparked on the concrete as the car went flying into the next lane, barreling past the length of the truck. She wished she'd rolled down the windows so she could feel the rush of wind, but this small regret faded away in the onslaught of the adrenaline flowing through her veins. Enjolras was silent and tense beside her, jaw clenched, pale face cutting through shadow and emerald, the truck a metallic blur beyond his sharp profile. He'd always hated travelling by vehicle, but after she saved up enough indulgences to buy her own car, he'd read up obsessively on traffic rules and regulations until he was, theoretically, much better at driving than she was.

Enjolras was a creature of law, but Éponine was a child of instinct. And when she glanced over at the driver's seat of the truck as she drew parallel to it, it was instinct that almost- _almost-_ made her swerve away and crash the car. The shock of wavy brown hair falling across a high forehead, the porcelain skin stretched over pinched yet delicate features, the slender, ghostlike fingers curled around a cigarette butt-

The truck driver was Montparnasse.

The windows of her car were tinted, but, even so, his icy gaze flickered to the left and held hers. He smirked, through the glass and the smoke, before she eased past him. Clever bastard. He'd known her route; he'd slowed down so he could get her attention. He wanted her to know he was coming for her.

Éponine gulped.

"What's wrong?" Enjolras asked suddenly. It was unfair how he was still attuned to the shifts in her mood, even after all these years.

"Nothing," she lied, returning her attention to the road. The truck followed them all the way home.

* * *

Instead of going up with them to her apartment after parking the car, Éponine handed her key to Grantaire and muttered something about needing to hit the convenience store.

"At this hour?" The words left Enjolras' mouth before he could stop himself.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "It's a two-minute walk from here."

He was no stranger to her strangely-timed cravings, to staggering out of bed at four in the morning so he could accompany her when she felt the need to buy ice cream or noodles after her shift. He couldn't do that now because being alone with her would be a horrible idea, but he still wanted to keep her safe.

"Combeferre shall go with you," he declared.

Combeferre started. "I will?" And then he saw the look on Enjolras' face, and coughed. "I mean, yes, of course. Shall we, Ep?"

Éponine folded her arms, severe and unimpressed in the low light of the stairwell. "Because fighting off muggers is much more difficult than exorcising demons," she deadpanned.

Enjolras sighed. "Why are you being so stubborn?"

"Why can't you accept the fact that I'm not the helpless little human you knew before the war?" she retorted.

"I never considered you helpless."

"I was." Her stern expression faltered for a second. "But not anymore."

"Éponine-" he started to say, but he was cut off by the exasperated groans of his friends as they began trooping up the steps.

"Can't do this right now," Feuilly called over his shoulder. "I'm still upset about Fedora Night."

"I'm not that upset because I'm not a dork," Grantaire added, "but I'm very sleepy."

Enjolras was left with no choice but to trail after them, although he couldn't resist glancing back at Éponine as she breezed out of the building's main door. With one hand on the banister, he saw her disappear into the night, shoulders squared like she was marching off to battle instead of merely going out for ice cream, or noodles, or potato chips.

_Most likely ice cream, _he thought as he ascended the stairs. _It's a weekend, after all._

By the time he reached the apartment unit, Bahorel was alone in the den, with the others already asleep, judging from the loud snores emanating from the bedroom that used to be Azelma's.

"Lamarque is on his deathbed," Bahorel announced without preamble. "I heard it from the ravens."

Enjolras frowned. "You couldn't have told me this earlier?"

Bahorel shrugged. "He's not dead _yet. _And I figured we could all use a little fun before getting down to business."

"Fun?" Enjolras repeated incredulously. "We did not surface to have _fun!"_

"I know, but it's hilarious how we ended up doing that anyway." Bahorel tilted his head, as if deep in thought, then revised his statement. "Well, Combeferre, Feuilly, Grantaire, and I, at least. You, on the other hand, have been… your usual self."

"There is nothing wrong with being serious."

"No, there isn't," Bahorel solemnly agreed. "But you could be happier. You really could. Like in the time before."

"That time is past," Enjolras snapped. "And we shall speak no more of it. I return to Dis at first light, to gather what information I can and rally the troops. You and the others will stay put. No more going out; no more risks. We have reached the critical point."

Bahorel gave a lazy, sardonic salute. "Aye aye, Captain."

* * *

"_Where are you going?" Enjolras mumbles into the pillow as Éponine crawls out of bed._

"_Jerusalem," she replies, zipping up a hoodie over her tank top. "I want ice cream."_

_He cracks one eye open to peer at the digital clock on the nightstand. "It's five in the morning. You just arrived from work two hours ago. Get some sleep."_

"_Ice cream," she insists._

_He sighs, slowly easing himself out from under the covers, a long-suffering expression on his face._

"_You don't _have _to come with me, you know," she tells him, but he just grunts as he pulls on a white shirt over his pajama bottoms._

_They tiptoe through the den as quietly as possible, but Azelma has the ears of a bat and she zooms out of her bedroom._

"_Are we going to the store?" she asks excitedly, a little ten-year-old girl in a long pink dress, with disheveled dark hair and eyes like Éponine's._

"_Yes, you brat," says Éponine, grinning in surrender._

"_Cool!" Azelma chirps. "Ice cream!"_

_Enjolras is already bending down, a mixture of groggy resignation and exasperated tenderness clouding his features. Azelma happily clambers onto his back, throwing her skinny arms around his neck. The three of them set off, out the door, down the stairs, down the sidewalk, with him occasionally pleading with the child to stop digging her ankles into his stomach._

_When they arrive at Jerusalem, the neighborhood convenience store, Enjolras deposits Azelma on the floor and she scurries to the ice cream aisle, the two adults trailing behind her. Éponine glances at Enjolras. He's running a hand through his tousled blond hair, his blue eyes drowsy, the soft cotton sleeve of his shirt riding up, contrasting with the lean, hard muscles of his arm._

"_I'll make it up to you when we get home," Éponine promises mischievously._

"_I just want to sleep," he mumbles._

_But he sidles nearer, hooks his hand on her waist and yawns as they approach Azelma, who's loudly debating between chocolate cherry and cookie dough._

* * *

Éponine shook away the memory, something she'd, as of late, been doing so much of. That had been one of the last convenience-store trips, two years into their relationship and a week before the Schism. Azelma had still been alive, getting chocolate syrup all over Enjolras' shirt and demanding that he piggyback her everywhere they went. She hadn't been a cold, still form on the concrete, soaked in blood and burnt skin as the skies rained angel feathers and the world blazed with hellfire.

_Did you love her, Enjolras? _Éponine wondered. _Or did you feel forced into the life we had? For that matter, did you even really love _me?

She shivered, trying to fight away the chill that had suddenly washed over her. The corner of Requiem and Bone was dark and deserted, save for the boy slouched against a lamppost and puffing away on a fresh cigarette, his cheekbones sharpened to scimitars by the murky green light.

"Truck driver now, are you?" Éponine asked dryly.

Montparnasse chuckled. "The goods don't deliver themselves."

"The goods?"

"Baked goods. Cookies."

Éponine snorted. "I think you mean _wafers."_

He grinned. "You said that, not me."

"What are you doing here, Montparnasse?"

He tipped his head back, blowing a wreath of silver smoke into the air, eyelids fluttering. When he came back to earth, he crooned, "Your father misses you, 'Ponine. He sends his love and his forgiveness."

She lifted her chin defiantly. "I've done nothing wrong."

"You ran away. You denounced the family." He ticked off her sins on his fingers. "You embarrassed us all. You stole his last remaining daughter. And you got her killed."

She slapped him. In the time before, he wouldn't even have flinched, but her Order training had given her new muscles, new ways to marshal her strength, and his head snapped to the side, the cigarette flying from his lips and falling to the ground.

"You dare say that to _me?" _she hissed as he rubbed his reddening cheek, gazing at her through sulky, heavy-lidded eyes. "She came to my door covered in bruises, and the old man actually _expected _me to give her back-"

"Maybe you should have." He studied his fingernails in a nonchalant manner. "She would have had the protection of the Five Families during the war."

It came crashing back, all of it, all the guilt, all the shame and the regret. Éponine swallowed the bile that rose up her throat, the prickly, hollow feeling of unshed tears. It had been ages since they last spoke, so she was no longer used to his mind games, but she still wasn't going to let him win.

"Protection?" she scoffed. "Don't flatter yourselves. Tholomyes misplaced his own _wife _on the very first day- although I guess she did well for herself, in the end."

Montparnasse huffed. The subject of Fantine was still a sore point in most of the criminal syndicates. "I didn't come here to talk about the Schism. Old ghosts and all," he said. He drew out a flash of metal from his pocket and she automatically took a step back, but it was a lighter, not a knife or a gun. He raised an eyebrow at her like he knew what she'd been thinking, and he smirked like he considered it a victory.

"Spit it out, then," said Éponine. "I've had a long night and I want to sleep."

He toyed with the lighter in his hand, flicking it open and close, sending orange sparks into the shadows. "Transport yourself, if you will, to a few nights ago," he said in a conversational tone of voice. "It's a routine collection route, and one of my men gets possessed by a demon. Bad for business, that. And who should come along, but a couple of mysterious chaps in black?"

_Bossuet and Joly! _Éponine realized. Momentary panic welled up inside her, but she managed to arrange her features into a semblance of puzzlement. Montparnasse could decipher poker faces, but emotions tended to trip him up.

"They run the others off, and those buffoons come crawling back to me, crying about strange weapons that… glow?" he continued, staring at the lighter's flame as if mesmerized by it. "A few hours later, we get a call from the possessed man. Only, he's no longer possessed. In fact, he's feeling quite well, thank you. I ask him what he can remember, but, of course, it's a lost cause- they can hardly remember anything in the ungraceful state. But he does tell me about silver crosses." Montparnasse snapped the lighter shut and smiled at Éponine. "Silver crosses like the one I've seen around your pretty little neck, from time to time."

"I should've known the old man would be keeping tabs on me," she said coldly.

"You are blood of his blood," said Montparnasse, skeletal and beautiful in the gloom of an emerald-stained city that had always been his. "And I am the bloodhound."

"And here you are sniffing around, making some tenuous connection between me and two random vigilantes because of… jewelry."

"Curious world we live in, isn't it? Why, there were even rumors of an angel sighting the other day-"

"_Rumors,"_ Éponine stressed. "Seriously, Montparnasse, what the fuck do you want? It's late, I'm tired, and I don't want to deal with your bullshit right now."

"You can't hide your secrets forever, 'Ponine," he told her, pushing away from the lamppost. Of all the times for her to be wearing flats- he towered over her, rail-thin and lethal. "Sooner or later, I _will _find out what you've gotten yourself into."

"Go to hell," she said wearily.

"We're already in it, you and me." He turned to leave, but paused, craning his neck slightly, presenting his chiseled profile to her over the collar of his coat. "I suppose Azelma never revealed who gave her your address," he said brightly. "She was a good kid. Always did what she was told, when it mattered."

Éponine could only stare after Montparnasse as he strolled back to his truck. Halfway to it, he started whistling a jaunty tune, and the sound filled what was left of the night.

* * *

Cosette smiled sweetly at the eight new recruits, her skin almost as pale as the light flooding the underground training room beneath the Café Musain.

"Demons are strong, fast, and intelligent," she said, "but they are also proud, and that is their downfall. Since the Silver City closed the portals four years ago, the only way the inhabitants of Dis have been able to surface in New Advent is to possess humans. This rankles, because to ride a human's mind is to assume a human's form. Demons like their own shapes; they hate moving around in other bodies. Thus, in the ungraceful state, they tend to be more pompous, not as smart. You can use this against them."

From her position in a plastic chair in the corner of the room, Éponine looked over at Marius, who was sitting beside her and perusing a thick folder of documents, adding his own notes with a snowy feather quill.

"What are you doing?" she asked him as Cosette lectured on.

"Analysis," he replied in an offhanded way. "I'm going through all the Order reports and trying to find a pattern in recent events. Some sort of connection." He glanced at her, his green eyes twinkling. "But that's boring, of course."

_You're right, _Éponine thought. _It is. _But she decided to prolong the conversation, because she liked his gentle, cultured voice and the aura of peace and contentment that emanated from him, especially after the turmoil of her encounter with Montparnasse and waking up a few hours ago to find Enjolras gone.

Not that she cared about Enjolras. Nope, not at all.

"What have you got so far? If you're allowed to tell me, that is."

"No rules against that. Technically, we _are _working together for the good of all mankind." Marius tapped his chin with the feathery edge of the quill, a little mannerism that struck her as oddly endearing. "There has been a recent spike in possession, but nothing too out of the ordinary- except that one of the Seven surfaced."

"Ishtar's a wild card," said Éponine. "You can never tell what she's going to do next."

"True," sighed Marius. "At least the Morningstar's predictable. Anyway, from what we've been picking up, I think it's safe to assume that something huge is about to happen- if not here in New Advent, then in Dis."

_You have no idea, angel boy, _Éponine thought wryly.

Cosette was now slowly pacing in front of the line of recruits, hands folded behind her back, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. "Remember," she said, "knowing the demon's name is already half the battle won. In fact, I would say that it is the most _important_ part of the battle. Names have power." Her opalescent eyes gleamed. "Know their names, and you shall have power over them."

_Names and power, _Éponine repeated silently, glumly. In the era of coexistence, the immigrants from Dis had preferred going by aliases so that humans could hold no sway over them. There had been illegal spells making the rounds in the black market, rituals and incantations designed to render demons into slaves, thralls, for varying periods of time. They almost never worked, but, on the rare occasions that they had, the results hadn't been pretty. Demons only gave their true names to humans they had formed bonds with.

Not Enjolras, though. He had told her who he was, right from the start.

* * *

_Behind the bar at Montfermeil is a polished mirror running through the length of the wall. She spots his golden-haired reflection as she leans her elbows on the counter, and she hides her smirk in a sip of martini. Took him long enough._

_He stands beside her, keeping a courteous distance but near enough for her to catch faint traces of sandalwood and soap. She raises her eyes to the mirror just in time to see his reflection staring at hers. Her lips curve in a wicked smile, but he hurriedly looks away, clearing his throat to get the bartender's attention._

"_Scotch on the rocks, please." His enunciation is crisp, but his voice is smooth and mellow, with just a tinge of scratchiness._

_Éponine decides that you can never go wrong with the classics._

_She keeps shooting surreptitious glances at him in the mirror. Once the drink's in his hand, he seems to tense, as if bracing himself to talk to her. It's the oldest game in the world, but it still makes her pulse thrill in anticipation every single time._

"_Excuse me," he says, and she turns to him._

_In that moment, several things happen at once. The club lights flash to the rhythm of the heavy bass, in splinters of neon and white strobes, and she experiences a few seconds of staggering double vision, and he's close enough for her to briefly spot the blurred outline of folded wings. _Demon, _she realizes, but before she can be properly surprised, someone jostles him from behind, and ice-cold scotch splashes all over the front of her white dress._

"_Fuck!" she yells as liquid seeps into her skin, pungent alcohol fumes searing their way up her nostrils._

_Looking stricken, he sets his now half-empty glass on the counter and grabs the nearest set of tissues. His hands fly to her chest, and she can only blink at him in disbelief as he clumsily tries to blot the wet stains. She thinks she can hear a group of boys alternating between laughter and groans a few tables away._

_It takes him _quite _a while to register what exactly he's touching, but once he gets there, his face loses all color and he snatches his hands back as if they've been burned._

"_My apologies," he mutters tersely, lowering his gaze to his feet._

_She finds her voice at last. "I normally don't let people get that far until the third date," she quips._

_She meant to set him at ease, but, instead, his broad shoulders stiffen._

"_I'll leave you alone," he says with a painfully polite nod._

_What. A. Dork._

"_Don't you want your third date?" she asks, arching one eyebrow in challenge._

_He jerks, visibly startled. Various emotions play out on his features- shock, confusion, relief- but only for a fleeting moment. Soon he resumes the stern mask, but there's a strange light in his blue eyes._

"_I am Enjolras," he says, a beautiful boy in a suit, liquor-soaked tissues crumbling in his hands._

_She smirks. "Éponine."_

* * *

A few months after that, they were sipping lattes on the sidewalk with his friends, and one of them had magnanimously told her she could start calling him Grantaire instead of R. She had been pleasantly surprised, maybe even a little touched, and as Enjolras walked her back to her apartment- because this had been back when they weren't living together yet- she'd asked him why he'd revealed his true name at their first meeting.

"I saw you there, and I decided to risk it," he'd said, shifting a bit uncomfortably. But when he glanced at her, it was sincere, and a crooked half-smile flickered on his lips. "I took a chance that this might be real."

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	7. A Hope in Hell

**Notes: **The revolution is almost upon us! ONE DAY MORE! Also p.s. I hope you Sandman fans enjoy the little cameo here. Thanks as always for being wonderful readers!

* * *

_For Hannah (azelma-jondrette), Ginger (youwerejustakid), Iman (barbreyryswells), and Aimee (pleasantscreams) who are this ship's shield-maidens and some of the finest people I know._

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**A Hope in Hell**

* * *

_Easier coming back than going out, _Grantaire had said once, and it was true. The portals between realms were sealed, but a demon's mind was a portal in itself, a connection to the red rocks and bone-strewn soil of the land that had forged it. To return to Dis, all Enjolras had to do was visualize the place, and _move._

A small bronze sun floated high above the crimson clouds as he appeared at the obsidian gates of Lamarque's palatial dwelling. Two griffins blocked his path, creatures with eagles' heads and eagles' wings on lions' bodies, the gloss of black feathers fading into rough, tawny fur. And damn it all, because Enjolras absolutely _loathed _griffins; they were the biggest bunch of bureaucratic ass-wipes he'd ever had the displeasure of encountering. The meticulous beasts had never met a rule they didn't like, and, as far as he was concerned, they existed solely for the purpose of making everyone else's lives more difficult.

"The General is not admitting visitors today," one of the griffins announced while its companion pushed itself into the thin, dry air, circling the scene. "He is ill." For such a bulky creature, its voice was reedy and high-pitched.

"I am aware that he is ill," said Enjolras. "I have come to pay my respects."

"We have been given instructions of the strictest nature. No visitors." The griffin looked its beak down at him. "You may mourn him later, but you shall not disturb him now."

"He is a dear mentor. He will be pleased to see me," Enjolras tried to reason. "We discussed an urgent matter the last time we spoke-"

"No visitors," the griffin repeated. Its lion's tail swished. "By order of the Morningstar."

Well, fuck.

Enjolras stormed away. The revolution would proceed without Lamarque- his death would in fact be the spark that ignited it- but it would have been nice to see the old goat one last time.

_When Dis becomes a republic, I will fight tooth and nail to pass a law demoting griffins to janitors, _Enjolras vowed savagely.

He stretched his wings and rose above the ground, arms folded in front of him and ankles pinned together. In this contemplative position, he glided through the air in the direction of the slum districts. The city was plunged into the lull of mid-afternoon, but he did spot a cluster of demons marching on the ground with a carriage in their midst, bearing scarlet flags emblazoned with yellow flame insignias. He made a face and ascended until he was high enough to reasonably pretend that he couldn't hear them if they called out to him. He was in no mood to be hailed by Baal's honor guard, or to speak with Baal himself. Enjolras had been at odds with the King of Wrath ever since he'd started campaigning for equality at Lamarque's side.

He finally touched down in the land of the Untitled and was assailed by the stink of unwashed flesh and dirty canals. Ramshackle buildings with broken windows leaned into one another, all looking like they would fall down at the slightest breeze. There was little light to be found here, as if the sun itself had turned its face away from such a pathetic place. The minor demons bowed as they scurried past him, their loose rags revealing protruding ribcages, their eyes hopeless and dull.

A slight weight settled on Enjolras' shoulder. A dusty voice whispered in his ear, "How many miles to Babylon?"

"Three score miles and ten," Enjolras murmured.

"Can I get there by candlelight?"

"Yes, and back again."

The passphrases of the Resistance having been satisfied, the imp flicked its little wings and gripped Enjolras tighter with its hairy hands. It fed him information as he walked down the street with an aura of nonchalance, and his mind swam with news of possible sympathizers and rumors of invasion.

"Beware," the imp told him, "for the Queen of Envy grows suspicious. She asks about you."

Enjolras suppressed a groan of frustration. Of _course _Nemesis would be the first of the Seven to know something was up. She was the Inescapable One, cunning and clever, with a vast network of spies at her command. It was only a matter of time before she found out about the Resistance. They had to act fast.

"Tell the others it won't be long now," Enjolras told the imp. "Lamarque's funeral. Spread the word."

The imp flew away and Enjolras turned the corner into a dark, deserted alley. He traced runes on the dead-end wall and it opened up into a small chamber lit by dozens of candles. He stepped inside, the wall closing behind him, and almost crashed into-

"What," he hissed, "are _you _doing here?"

"Waiting for you," Grantaire replied. "I knew you'd end up here eventually."

"You disobeyed my orders-"

"For good reason."

Enjolras scowled. "Well, then, I am all ears."

"What you _are, _my Prince,is in a fouler mood than usual." Grantaire smirked. "I surmise that you were unable to speak with Lamarque. A tragic state of events."

"The guards would not let me in," Enjolras admitted grudgingly. "But what is your point?"

"I am Acedia, am I not?" The other demon gestured to himself with a lazy hand. "I may walk unseen when I choose, and so may all _whom_ I choose."

Enjolras studied Grantaire for a moment, and then asked, "What's the catch?"

"Catch?" The Marquis repeated, sounding faintly amused.

"You have never helped me before. To what should I ascribe this sudden flirtation with altruism?"

"You wound me," murmured Grantaire. "Perhaps I am bored. Or!" He held up his index finger, cutting off Enjolras' frustrated sigh. "Or perhaps I know Lamarque is your friend, your teacher, and you will miss him when he is gone. It is up to you what to believe."

A muscle ticked along Enjolras' jaw. "All right," he said at last. "You will take me to the General."

"Thanks for letting me do you this favor." Grantaire's tone dripped with sarcasm. "But you have something to take care of first, and I'll leave you to it. I shall wait outside." He inclined his head in a parody of a bow and sauntered out the door leading back to the alley.

The shadows clung to Enjolras as he advanced deeper into the candle-lit gloom until he reached an altar, on which rested the disembodied head of a young, dark-haired man, whose eyes were closed and whose lips were tinged with the bluish pallor of death.

Enjolras could be a rebel all he wanted, but, at the end of the day, he was still a demon, and if you were a demon you couldn't undertake an important venture without consulting an oracle first. It simply wasn't done.

"Orpheus," he said, and the man's eyes opened.

* * *

It was a dreary gray afternoon on the surface, all overcast skies and watery light. The Café Musain housed only three customers: Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Éponine, who were exchanging mournful looks with one another across the table.

"Dumb kids," Éponine muttered, referring to the new recruits. "I didn't think we needed to train them how to use the fucking _coffeemaker."_

"What are we going to do?" groaned Jehan. "The Musain's brew is much too bitter for my taste." He pushed back strands of strawberry blond hair from his forehead, revealing a dark wet smear on his rosy skin.

"Um, you've got-" Éponine started to say, but she subsided when Courfeyrac reached over with a handkerchief to gently dab the ichor from the other boy's face.

"I am terribly sorry," said Courfeyrac. "I know you two need your post-exorcism caffeine fix. I have no idea how it happened, either. One minute the recruits were asking me where I kept the beans, and the next, the machine was exploding."

"Bastards," Éponine groused. She took a sip from the cappuccino she'd ordered and her features screwed up with disgust. "We should put in a requisition form with Musichetta."

"Let Bossuet and Joly do it," suggested Jehan. "That particular drama is keeping me on the edge of my seat. Better than _Estelle et Némorin."_

Courfeyrac's chestnut eyes twinkled. "What is it with humans and angels?"

"I don't know," Jehan mused. "What do you think, Ep?"

Éponine glared at them. "What's _that _supposed to mean?" She was a bit annoyed at herself; apparently, her attraction to Marius had not gone unnoticed.

"Nothing," the other Templars chorused innocently. They drank their coffee, mirroring each other's actions.

Jehan put his cup back down, gagging. When he recovered, he said to the girl, "It's just nice to see you in love."

_You should have seen me before, _came the unbidden thought from the deepest part of her. _I was so happy. _And there it was again, Enjolras' pale skin in the sunlight seeping through the bedroom windows, his eyes at half-mast, his sculpted lips whispering prayers into her neck, into the backs of her knees. And on lazy Sunday mornings, watching television in bed with his arm around her, while little Azelma snuggled up to them, her birdlike hands tugging at Enjolras' golden hair. That warm, contented feeling, the kind that was so different from passion, the kind that filled the heart with radiance instead of engulfing it in flames.

Éponine forced the memories away with another swig of foul-tasting coffee. She glanced at Jehan, and noticed an unusual sliver of blue in his crystalline eyes.

"What the-" she said, but Courfeyrac was already peering at the silver crucifix around his neck, which had slid out from under his collar and thrown sapphire light into Jehan's irises.

"Two in one afternoon?" Jehan sighed as they leapt to their feet. "We're really working for that new coffeemaker."

* * *

The sonorous tones of Orpheus' voice echoed throughout the chamber, sliding deep into Enjolras' bones. Combeferre, Feuilly, and Bahorel had consulted the oracle before the first ascent, but Enjolras had kept putting it off. Orpheus was too vague for him, too lost in poetry and nostalgia to provide much helpful advice. However, he was the only oracle sympathetic to the cause due to his grudge against the Furies, who had made him what he was today.

"You are driven by doom, Prince of Wrath," said Orpheus, his pale eyes boring into Enjolras'. "You fight without understanding. You wish only to burn."

Enjolras' brow creased. "I myself penned our manifesto. I gave the movement shape. How can you say that?"

"I see what I see," Orpheus replied. "I see that your path is cloaked in mist. You look at your aims, but you do not hold them." He offered a thin smile. "Like me, you are plagued by what once was. You are haunted by an old ghost."

The image of Éponine came to Enjolras in the darkness, like it always had, like it probably always would. Gold-flecked eyes and slender arms and fleeting smiles. "I have already decided to let her go."

"Not her," whispered the oracle, as all around them candles sputtered and shadows blossomed. "The other. The one who died."

* * *

_Once Enjolras has moved into the apartment on the corner of Requiem and Bone, his first real task is to make sure Azelma goes to sleep at a reasonable hour after Éponine leaves for work. He and the child regard each other warily as he stands by her bed while she tucks the blankets around herself. He has no idea how to interact with human children, although Combeferre had told him once that they were just like the imps in Dis, only messier._

_But he _does _know that he shouldn't raise his voice around her, or make any sudden movements, because that will send her retreating into herself, into a place not even her older sister can draw her out from._

_Enjolras clears his throat. "Well, good night."_

"_I'm not sleepy," Azelma says._

_He wonders if she's messing with him; he'd definitely seen her yawning a few minutes ago. Some distant corner of his brain is aware, in a vague way, that he's blinking helplessly at a child and looking lost, but he really is clueless._

_After a few seconds of this hopeless impasse, she takes pity on him. "You can sing me a bedtime song."_

"_I do not know any."_

_Her mouth drops open. "Not even _one?"

_He shrugs, and they're back to staring at each other. He briefly contemplates dialing Éponine and telling her to find a new boyfriend, because he isn't cut out for this._

"_I can teach you," Azelma says at last. She pats an empty space on the mattress and he cautiously perches on the edge of her bed. "This one's my favorite. Sing it after me, okay?"_

"_Okay," Enjolras says, but it comes out sounding like a confused question._

_She grins, mischievous and shy all at once. And then she starts to sing, with a child's lilting voice, with a child's pronounced lisp, "How many miles to Babylon?"_

* * *

The three Templars ran out of the Musain, edging their way past other pedestrians. Bossuet and Joly could whine all they liked, but being on the Day Watch was infinitely harder because there were more people out and about, people who could become innocent casualties or who could place a panicked phone call to the police.

But there were no Possessed in sight. Instead, Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Éponine almost collided into Combeferre, Feuilly, and Bahorel.

"_What are you doing?" _Éponine yelled, cheeks red with fury. _"Why are you here?"_

"Ep." Combeferre swallowed, his expression tense and strained. "Your apartment- it's burning down."

* * *

By the time Enjolras and Grantaire arrived at Lamarque's palace, it was already too late. The bells were chiming, and the banners of Dis and the Wrath legion were being lowered, replaced by black flags that streamed in the air, which in itself resounded with wails coming from inside the building.

Grantaire turned to Enjolras. "I am sorry," he said, uncharacteristically somber.

The other demon's fists clenched at his sides. He had known this day would come, had known it ever since Lamarque descended with the last wave of troops and vestal bullets embedded in his body. Even as he took Enjolras under his wing, even as he campaigned for the rights of the Untitled, the General had been dying a slow death for four years.

"We have to go back up," Enjolras told Grantaire. "We have to tell the others."

"Shall I do it?"

"No." Even in his distress, Enjolras still didn't trust the Marquis to pull off a successful ascent. "I will." He held out his hand and the other demon gripped it tightly, and he forced his mind to the surface, into the void.

The first human eyes he blinked out of saw red lanterns and clumps of batter frying in oil. Chinatown. Too far. He jumped again. Towering black spires and stained-glass windows. The Basilica. Not close enough. He skipped all over the city of New Advent, seizing the most susceptible minds and then releasing them, blazing down the factories in Lament Street, the docks of Fiddler's Green, the malls and cinemas of Ghost Avenue. At last, he found a mind in Requiem, but what he saw was the apartment engulfed in bright orange fire and thick gray smoke.

"What's wrong?" Grantaire's voice sliced into his thoughts. "Why did you cry out?"

Enjolras' heart was racing. His eyes glowed silver blue as he continued down the street, leaping from one human to the next. He saw Éponine and his friends outside the Musain, everyone gesturing wildly with voices raised, and the relief was so great it almost brought him to his knees.

He needed to get as close to them as possible. A thin, pale young man was leaning against an illegally parked car, puffing away on a cigarette and quietly observing the heated discussion, mere steps away.

Perfect.

"Come on," Enjolras said to Grantaire, and they surfaced.

* * *

Too absorbed in the news that her entire life was, apparently, going down in flames, Éponine had failed to notice Montparnasse lurking around at first. But she definitely saw him now, over the jut of Combeferre's shoulder, when he started twitching and screaming, elbows jerking and feet lashing out at the air.

The Templars and the demons all turned to look, and passersby started giving him a wide berth, a few muttering, "Crazy junkies" under their breaths.

Éponine frowned. Montparnasse was much too smart to indulge in communion wafers. In fact, it almost looked as if…

"Get out of my head!" he roared, clutching at his temples. "This is mine. Mine!"

"_No," _a different voice growled from his mouth as he bent over, shivering in pain. _"Mine. Mine, now."_

"_Mine, too," _a third voice piped up. _"What am I, fish food?"_

The street became a mass of chaotic activity. People started running away, while the Templars' hands plunged into the various places in their attire that concealed their weapons. Éponine got there first, tackling Montparnasse to the ground. The smell of gasoline hit her like a wave just as a book of matches fell out of his pocket.

Éponine stared at him in disbelief. _"You _burned down my apartment?" she shrieked. "You little fuck!"

"Can- can we talk about that later?" Montparnasse gasped, his head rolling back and forth on the concrete, sweat oozing from his pores as he tried to push the demons out of his mind. "I'm a little occupied at the moment-"

Her fist slammed into his nose, drawing blood. Smoke bloomed all around his body, and she raised an eyebrow even as she retreated. Huh. It usually took more effort than that.

Éponine's confusion was put to rest when the mists dissipated and she found herself the focus of two pairs of blue eyes, one as dark as the ocean, the other as pale as ice.

Enjolras frowned down at the unconscious body at his feet. "You know this one?" He sounded coldly furious. "He set the apartment on fire?"

"No time for that," Éponine snapped. "Look, we have to get you guys somewhere else, we're too near the headquarters-"

"Um, Ep…" Jehan croaked.

"What?"

He pointed, and Éponine whirled to follow the line of his shaking finger.

The two angels were standing outside the Musain. Marius' mouth had dropped open in shock, but Cosette already had her gun out, and she was aiming straight for Enjolras' heart.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	8. Bad Moon Rising

**Notes: **Still so amazed by the feedback and support this cracktastic AU has gotten! I love you all :) And I'm sorry about the last cliffhanger, but I hope this update compensates for it. In this chapter: flashbacks, bloopers, and... politics? Oh, well. Suggestions, corrections, and constructive criticism are very welcome!

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**Bad Moon Rising**

* * *

_The city is no longer solid; it is a watercolor dream of smoke and ash. The Seraphim fall upon the demonic legions with fiery swords and enormous wings that can knock a man sideways with one blow. People are screaming, although some scream for joy because help has finally arrived from the Silver City. In the shadow of the Basilica, Éponine, covered in cuts and bruises from the explosion at the safe house, is staring down the barrel of a New Advent military-issue gun, as all around her the crowds surge and push and panic._

_In two seconds she will lunge and wrestle the gun away from the crazed looter who had never expected her to fight back. In five seconds, the gun will go off in her hands and he will fall dead at her feet, eaten from the inside out by vestal light, although he is human and the blood that stains the front of his shirt is bright red. In eight seconds, the gun will slide from her grip as she realizes her sister is nowhere to be found._

_In ten minutes, she will see the child at the far end of the street, back turned, barefoot in her tattered white dress, facing a troop of angels rendered immobile by the thorny creeper vines that have broken through the concrete. Éponine will shout her sister's name, will scream it to the crimson skies, and Azelma will turn around, as if in slow motion, her dark eyes widening, her little body poised to throw itself forward into waiting arms._

_Movement will flicker at the periphery of Éponine's vision. She will notice, too late, the beat of scaled wings amassed on the rooftops. She will hear a cold voice ring out, as familiar as it once was dear, giving an order in the grating, shadow-language of Dis._

_And she will look at Azelma through a whirl of white feathers and dust. The child's long black hair will lift in the breeze, obscuring her face; the hem of her white dress will flutter around her knees. And the street will seem to crumple into itself, will shiver and crack and inhale, before the world bursts into hellfire._

* * *

The memory blazed through Éponine's mind within the space of a heartbeat, as the sight of Cosette and the gun wavered, superimposed with the image of the wild-eyed man and the Seraphim overhead. Different gun, different time. Metatron, not Seraphim. _This is the present moment, _she had to remind herself. _Stay in the present moment. _And, because there was no opportunity to do anything else, because Enjolras was to blame for a lot of things but she still couldn't lose him like this, she barreled into him, sending them both sprawling to the curb just as the shot rang out.

His back hit the concrete, hard. He hissed in pain and, oh, how she felt it, deep in her nerves. His hands settled on her hips and the ends of her hair trickled into the hollow of his collarbones, and stormy blue eyes stared up into black as the harsh pattern of his breathing traced her lips.

Her cheek tingled, because her body remembered, even if she herself did not want to.

* * *

"_Your eyes are like the ocean," she tells him, peering at him intently with her arms folded over the kitchen island's countertop, because they're both mellowed enough by alcohol to say things like that._

_He smirks and runs elegant fingers over the curve of her cheekbone. "And yours are like the night," he murmurs, his aristocratic drawl softened by one vodka highball too many. "Shall you be my sky?"_

_The next morning she will laugh at him for this, will tease him mercilessly about it, but for now she's warm and sleepy and he leans across the counter to hide his crooked lips in her neck, playfully nudging her earlobe with the tip of his nose. His stubble scrapes across her skin and she giggles and makes half-hearted attempts to push him away. Very, _very_ half-hearted._

* * *

"Are you kidding me?" gasped a voice that still managed to sound indignant even though it had a strangled quality to it, jolting Enjolras and Éponine out of their daze. The speaker was Feuilly, who was currently on his knees and being held in a chokehold by Cosette. "You two pick _now _of all times to gaze soulfully into each other's eyes?"

There were bruises on the angel's fingers; someone had kicked the gun from her hands, and Éponine didn't have to wait long to find out who did it, because Courfeyrac's glance was darting from the weapon on the ground to Jehan and back again, a shocked expression on his face.

Meanwhile, Marius was flat on his stomach, being sat on by Bahorel and Combeferre. Grantaire merely surveyed the scene with an aura of vague disbelief.

"Cloak, now!" Éponine yelled at him as she scrambled off Enjolras.

"Oh, right." Grantaire's ice-blue eyes flashed a brief silver tinge in the weak sunlight. A charm had been cast over the group; no random passerby would notice them, and those who already had would forget soon enough.

However, invisibility would not shield a civilian from a stray bullet or a furious sweep of hellfire. _Containment, containment, _Éponine silently chanted to herself as she slid the gunblade from its hilt. They had to bring the situation under control.

"We have to bring the situation under control," said Courfeyrac.

Éponine would have sarcastically told him to get out of her head, if she hadn't been focused on what was before them, a tableau of angels and demons glaring at one another.

"I disarmed her," Jehan muttered, his cheeks losing color beneath his freckles. "I assaulted the Metatron. I'm doomed."

"You did it to save Ep," Courfeyrac quickly pointed out. "We can work our way around that…"

Cosette slowly rose to her feet, dragging Feuilly with her. She was not of the Seraphim, so she couldn't produce weapons of fire and light, but she didn't need to; she tipped her wrist, and a silver dagger flitted out her sleeve, into her waiting palm. She held the blade to Feuilly's throat, the dim outline of her wings shimmering in the air as they began to unfold.

"I am certain I needn't tell you what will happen if you make any sudden moves," Cosette said to the other demons, in a sweet voice had taken on the edge of steel. "And you," she said to Feuilly, "before you even _think _about hellfire, please note that my hand might just accidentally slip if it gets a little too warm."

"How about a trade?" Combeferre proposed. With his knees still digging into Marius' back, he stretched out an arm and his hand formed a loose fist, which swiftly tightened around the spear of ice that had materialized out of thin air. He poised the weapon over Marius' nape. "Your friend for ours."

Enjolras and Grantaire took their place with the other demons and their captive. Cosette pressed the blade tighter against Feuilly's throat. Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Éponine watched and waited. Cosette's delicate features were a porcelain mask. Only her strange eyes gave away her inner turmoil, their blue-green depths swirling with anger and confusion and something that looked like fear as they flickered over Marius, who was breathing heavily on the ground, one swift heartbeat away from getting his spinal cord severed.

Finally, Cosette asked, "Why are you here?"

"We want to overthrow the Morningstar," Enjolras replied in measured tones. "The Order has been helping us plan our assault. Lamarque has just passed away. We will strike at his funeral."

_Too soon, _Éponine thought. _It's much too soon. We haven't collected enough weapons. You aren't ready yet._

"You have betrayed your vows." Cosette wasn't looking at the Templars, but it was clear she was speaking to them. "You have aided, abetted, and harbored enemies of your State, and you kept it from us."

"We have only one enemy, Cosette," argued Courfeyrac, "and that's Lucifer's government. They're planning an invasion."

Marius spoke up. "These demons told you, I suppose?" His voice rasped against the concrete. "The children of Dis always lie. You should know that."

"Quiet, you," Bahorel ordered, putting more of his weight on the angel, who winced.

"They're telling the truth," said Éponine. "We made them swear it."

"Invasion?" Cosette repeated, her brow wrinkling.

"The legions amass under our feet," Enjolras told her. "Soon the chasms will open, and New Advent will be swallowed up by the seven Kings and Queens."

"The Silver City sealed the portals four years ago-" Marius began, but Cosette cut him off.

"Not the portals," she said. "The chasms." The weak spaces in the void, the same ones that angels used to descend. The fractures that could only be manipulated by the sovereigns.

And there it was again in Éponine's mind, the burning crater that had opened, the dark voices that emerged from it, proclaiming surrender, urging all the demons to return. Her tears dripping on Azelma's corpse, Enjolras walking away without looking back…

"Marius and I were told to investigate rumors." Cosette sounded like she was talking to herself, although her grip on Feuilly didn't relax in the slightest. "There were disturbances in the ether. We knew something was up, but we didn't expect it to be something of this magnitude."

"I thought it involved the drug trade," Marius admitted sheepishly.

"I must commune with my superiors," said Cosette.

"Not here," Éponine said quickly, glancing around the busy street, full of people going about their daily lives. She didn't think Grantaire's power would hold up against the might of the Metatron.

"Yes," Cosette agreed. "Let's go back inside."

* * *

The new recruits were ordered to go home, with Grantaire casting down his shields after the last one had filed out the door. Bahorel was assigned to stand guard over Montparnasse and knock him out again if he regained consciousness.

An ethereal glow surrounded Cosette, lighting her skin from within. She tipped her head back and looked up, her eyes blazing like sharply-cut diamonds in the summer sun. They were indoors, but some unusual wind rippled through her golden hair, through the material of her black suit, while the rest of her remained motionless. The weapons and crucifixes in the room shone brighter, the white glow of angels overpowering the blue of demons.

"Father," said Cosette in many voices at once. "Father, hear me."

And then she fell silent, lips pursed as if listening to someone. Éponine knew the angel was carrying on a conversation in her mind, but that still didn't make the sight any less eerie. The minutes felt like hours as they ticked away. Finally, Cosette came back to herself, and the wind stopped and the light faded. She looked exhausted, her golden hair settling limply around her shoulders.

"The Silver City will not intervene," she announced to the quiet room. "At least, not now. We can't act until something actually happens, or else we would have to explain how we found out about it beforehand. We aren't even supposed to have a presence here, at this time. In light of these unforeseen circumstances, Marius and I have been recalled." She nodded at her partner. "We leave tomorrow."

Courfeyrac's mouth dropped open. "You mean you won't do anything to stop the invasion?"

"There is no invasion yet," Cosette softly reminded him. "But we will be watching the void. At the first sign of rupture, the Seraphim will descend."

"Who knows how many people will have died by then?" Courfeyrac demanded. "I don't get it, here your government has the chance to prevent a tragedy and you're not-" Jehan squeezed his hand tightly in a gesture that managed to be both comfort and warning, and the rest of the sentence choked off in Courfeyrac's throat. They were already on thin enough ice with the Metatron as it was.

Combeferre spoke up. "What about the revolution?" His gaze was trained on Cosette, who shrugged.

"The internal affairs of Dis are none of the Silver City's concern. However…" She bit her lip as she studied the five demons. "However, we believe that you go to your doom. That no little rebellion will shake Lucifer from the Throne of Isis."

"It might throw a wrench into his invasion plans, at any rate, which will be more than your State can say for itself," Feuilly said sourly.

"There is no invasion yet," Cosette repeated, primly folding her hands in front of herself. "As far as the Silver City knows, there is no revolution, there aren't any demons inside this organization's headquarters, and there are no angels in New Advent."

"I don't know why you mortals are so surprised," said Bahorel. "Last time, it took months for your feathered friends to come to your aid."

"You mean, when _you _were fighting them?" Marius retorted.

"They started it," Bahorel growled. "That is a known fact. Assassinating a foreign ambassador is an act of aggression."

Marius drew himself up to his full height. "May I remind you that your leaders stormed out of the peace negotiations-"

Feuilly jumped in. "The peace negotiations that the Silver City wasn't present at, because you only started to care when an entire realm was on the verge of being obliterated-"

"That will be all," said Cosette. She didn't raise her voice, but it was chilly enough to plunge the room into silence. "There's no use opening old wounds. Now, as for you three…" She turned to the Templars, who regarded her apprehensively. Jehan and Courfeyrac managed to inch closer to each other at the same time that they subtly stepped behind Éponine.

"You were merely doing what you thought was best," said Cosette. "And Jehan kicked the gun from my hands in the heat of the moment. The Metatron absolves you, and urges you to distance yourself from this situation."

"'Urges'?" Éponine echoed.

"We cannot tell you what to do." And Cosette was looking at Éponine with her opalescent eyes, and something in them told the brunette to pay attention to how the words sounded, to the way they were said, to the placid expression on the angel's face.

Éponine wasn't much good at diplomacy, but she knew how to fight. She knew feints and sleight-of-hand. This was simply another kind of battle, and it finally clicked. _Help them, and we will look the other way, _Cosette was implying. _If they succeed, the invasion will not happen. Help them and help yourselves, and we will let you do it._

Éponine had no patience for mind games or politics, but she could take grace when it was offered, when it was the only thing that could be given. She returned Cosette's stare, and nodded slowly.

* * *

Enjolras knew they had to act fast. He and his friends had to gather the weapons and leave for Dis as soon as possible. But, first, there was the matter of their- of _Éponine's _apartment to take care of.

After everyone had more or less settled down, with Jehan serving tea to angels and demons that were one wrong move away from fighting again, Enjolras and Éponine dragged the arsonist's limp form out the back exit. Once they dropped him on the trash-strewn ground of the alley, he began to stir, groans escaping from his mouth.

"Who is he?" asked Enjolras.

"His name is Montparnasse," Éponine replied. "Someone from the family." _The, _not _my. _Her only family had died on the last day of the war.

_Thanks to me, _Enjolras thought bitterly. When he gave the command to fire, he had only been looking at the immobilized Seraphim. He hadn't seen Azelma until the flames burned low and the smoke disappeared, and, by then, Éponine was already huddled over her sister, weeping as Joly rushed up to hold her and the street split apart to reveal the chasm.

Enjolras had known then that all was lost, that the Schism had taken away everything he hoped it wouldn't. He should have flown directly into the abyss as his comrades did, but he hadn't been able to resist one last look, hadn't been able to resist walking past them, the only two girls he'd ever loved.

He shook himself back to the present. Éponine kicked Montparnasse in his skinny ribs, causing the boy to gasp, eyes fluttering open.

"Why did you do it, 'Parnasse?" Éponine sounded tired, as if the events of today had sapped the life from her veins. "Did the old man give the order? You should have known not even this would make me come crawling back."

"Of course it wouldn't," said Montparnasse. He still seemed dazed from the possession. "You have never crawled; you have never bowed. I only wanted to see you break." His gaze flickered to Enjolras, and the corner of his lips lifted in a smirk. "Ah. The boyfriend. I wondered where you had gone."

"And what," hissed Enjolras, "is that supposed to mean?"

"He's been keeping me under surveillance," Éponine told him. "For how long, I don't know. But don't talk to him. Don't let him fool you."

Enjolras scoffed. "I think I can handle a pile of bones in a leather jacket."

"I already said lay off." She shot him a weary glare. "If you actually listened to me once in a while…"

"I am sensing a bit of tension here," Montparnasse piped up as he got to his feet. "Please, do not let me disturb you. I'll be on my way."

"If I ever see you again, I will not be responsible for my actions," Éponine warned.

"Yet another thing we don't have in common, more's the pity," he sighed. "My actions are the only thing I feel any responsibility for." He staggered out of the alley, lifting his hand in a casual wave before he turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

Enjolras frowned. "We should report him to your police."

"What for?" Éponine tucked loose strands of wavy hair behind her ear, and his own fingers twitched with the memory of the countless times he'd done it for her. "He'll walk. The old man's goons always do."

He looked at her. It was already late afternoon, and the red sunset stained her face with shadows even as it picked out the flecks of gold in her dark, dark eyes. "What are you going to do now?"

"I can stay at headquarters until I find a new place." She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, brave as always, his unquenchable fire, his starlit night, meeting life head-on and lost to him, brilliant and beautiful and gone forever. "Come on. Let's go back to the others and talk revolution."

* * *

Behind Mondétour, the beam pulsing from the flashlight in Bossuet's hand sliced through the blackness and fell on Joly's face as it emerged from the sewers, smeared with muck. Bossuet took the heavy crate Joly was carrying and hauled it onto the sidewalk with a grunt, then waited until his partner had clambered out through the hole in the ground before splashing a bucket of ice-cold water on him. Joly frantically swiped at his wet features and clothes, batting away the sludge.

"The things I do for anarchy!" he moaned, shivering in the chilly night air. "Let's hurry, I need to drown myself in disinfectant and antibiotics-"

"Going somewhere, boys?" a silky feminine voice purred.

Startled, Bossuet had to bite down on his tongue to refrain from screaming out loud. Musichetta was standing in front of them, cloaked in shadows that didn't hide the dangerous gleam in her dark eyes.

"H- hello," Bossuet stammered. "Fancy running into you here! We were just- we were just doing rounds- right, Joly?" He nudged the other boy in a fit of desperation.

Joly hacked up a mouthful of sewer water before he collected himself. "Oh, yes!" he said. "We had to exorcise someone, and then the demon made a run for it-"

"Really?" Musichetta tilted her head, as if she were considering their words. "You chased the demon all the way into the sewers?"

"Clever little buggers, demons," Bossuet remarked while Joly nodded fervently.

"How terrible for you," cooed Musichetta, breezing past them. "How positively ghastly."

She kicked off the crate cover at the same time that she grabbed Bossuet's wrist and trained the flashlight on the contents. An assortment of disassembled pistols, bullets, and grenades shone in the light, glowing white with angelic presence, the fifth batch of weapons to be liberated from the storage room in the basement of Mondétour.

"We can explain," Joly blurted out.

"I'm sure you can," said Musichetta. "But I'd much rather wait until we're at the Order base, if it's all the same to you." She grinned with all her teeth. "I'm sure the other Metatron would love to hear this story."

* * *

Courfeyrac watched Éponine fluff the pillows on one of the bunk beds. "You're sleeping here?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Where else am I supposed to sleep? My apartment burned down, remember?"

He fidgeted. "It's just that… Well… You tend to snore, Ep."

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Bahorel will give me a run for my money."

"Hey!" protested the demon in question. "I do not snore!"

"Oh, yes, you do, my friend," Combeferre muttered.

Courfeyrac wrung his hands. "_They're _sleeping here, too?"

He was still looking at Éponine when he said it, but Enjolras was the one who replied. "Only until we leave for Dis tomorrow."

_We're all going to die, _Courfeyrac thought bleakly. How could angels, humans, and demons coexist under one roof for a night?

Jehan stood up. "Well, I'd better head to work. Shall I drop by Montfermeil and tell them what happened, Ep?"

"I already called," said Éponine. "Thanks, anyway."

Jehan bid goodbye to the other occupants of the room, his demure smile lingering on Courfeyrac. Before he could leave, however, the front door slid open and Musichetta sauntered in, flanked by Bossuet and Joly, both of whom she was towing by the ear. Joly was slightly damp, and the smell of raw sewage emanating from him filled the air. Courfeyrac wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Look who I found skulking around my shop," Musichetta announced. "They've been stealing weapons. I have the evidence in my car-" She abruptly stopped talking once she noticed the demons. Her hands dropped to her sides, and the two boys rubbed their earlobes in relief.

"Pardon me while I go take a shower," Joly said brightly. "As you can see, I am covered in shit." He scampered off to the bathroom, with everyone that he passed recoiling from him.

Musichetta's dark eyes narrowed, and a faint white aura encased her golden skin as the unmistakable sound of unfolding wings crept into the tense silence. The demons glared back, the temperature rising with a vague suggestion of smoke and hellfire. Bossuet, Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Éponine huddled together by the wall, as far away as possible from what had the beginnings of a very nasty confrontation.

"Sister." Cosette took Musichetta's arm and drew her aside. "Sister, allow me to debrief you."

As Marius and Cosette quietly explained the situation to the other Metatron agent, Courfeyrac glanced at Jehan. "I thought you were off to work."

"Are you kidding?" Jehan's gray eyes darted around the room, taking in the various weapons and crucifixes that blazed both blue and white, the stiff postures of the Silver City beings, and the uneasy looks being exchanged by the inhabitants of Dis, before finally resting on his fellow Templars. "A slumber party with angels, humans, and demons? I wouldn't miss this for the world."

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	9. Dream a Little Dream of Me

**Notes: **Before anything else, this chapter was traumatic to write, and I would never have been able to survive doing so if Emma (girlbehindthescrawledletters on Tumblr) hadn't been there to hold my hand the entire time. She even made a doodle to cheer me up ( youarethesentinels. tumblr . c*m / post / 48464932759 / i-was-having-a-horrid-time-writing-the-latest ) because she is the best person ever, seriously. Also, Audrey and Anna have made the most gorgeous photosets for this story ( epjolras . tumblr . c*m / post / 48417047289 ) ( loveholic198 . tumblr . c*m / post / 48278545275 / season-unending-by-unicornesque-there-are-three ). Thank you for the feedback and support, lovely readers, and do keep it coming!

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

**Dream a Little Dream of Me**

* * *

The headquarters was on lockdown. Courfeyrac shot off messages to Order members and recruits in training, telling them not to come in until the day after tomorrow. As an extra precautionary measure, the front door was sealed against rune activation after Musichetta brought in the crate she'd confiscated.

The humans and demons were now surveying all the collected weapons. It was not, on the whole, an armory that could inspire fear in two legions, let alone all seven, but Enjolras was counting on the force of sheer numbers as well as the support of Lamarque's allies.

"Aim for the eyes, if you can," said Éponine, casually assembling a rifle from the crate and giving it an experimental sight down the barrel. Enjolras tried not to be perturbed by the fact that she was pointing it straight at him. "The holy water will blind them and give you an edge."

Combeferre glanced at Enjolras. "Will Orpheus sing?"

"He said he'd think about it," Enjolras replied with a flicker of annoyance at the oracle's lack of political commitment.

"He will. He must," said Feuilly. "No one hates the Furies more."

"Why, what did the Kindly Ones do to him?" asked Bossuet.

Surprisingly, Marius was the one who answered, although up until then the Metatron agents had been very busily watching television and pretending that they had no idea what was going on inside the room. "Thousands of years ago, there existed one other human settlement," the angel spoke up from the couch. "Atlantis, city of the waves, made of glass and light, surrounded only by saltwater and foam- what you now call the Sea of Ghosts, although it has older names."

"Marius!" hissed Musichetta, while Cosette pointedly cleared her throat.

Marius held up his palms. "I am neither aiding nor abetting. I am simply telling a story in response to a Templar's question."

"But we already know about Atlantis," said Joly. "Well, these days, it's a wine brand more than anything, but we know the place used to exist. Where does this Orpheus guy fit in?"

"Orpheus was a Prince of Acedia, although he was more melancholy than apathetic," said Marius, green eyes wistful. Enjolras realized, much to his disdain, that the speaker was a romantic on top of being an angel. Terrific. "He fell in love with an Atlantean girl, by the name of Eurydice. This was a century before the Accords of Ember and Glacier, so a relationship between a demon and a human was strictly forbidden."

Enjolras couldn't help himself; he glanced at Éponine. But he didn't like what he saw. She was staring at the Metatron agent as if entranced, the rifle loose in her hands, with that soft look on her face that she had only ever worn for him in the time before. He suppressed the growl that crept up from the back of his throat, and Bahorel, who was a creature of desire and thus finely attuned to all the myriad emotions that came with it, flashed him an amused grin.

"Their affair was discovered, and Lucifer was so vexed that he ordered the Furies to destroy Atlantis," Marius continued.

Cosette sighed. "He'd wanted to do that for the longest time." It was a gentle rebuke. "He was angry because the Atlanteans refused to trade with Dis, remember?"

Marius scratched the back of his head, smiling at Cosette. "You're right, of course. You always did get higher marks in International Relations than me," he murmured, and then he returned his attention to his audience. "So. The Morningstar latched on to the first excuse that came along, and the Furies ripped the City of Atlantis apart. No one was spared."

"Eurydice _could _have been spared," Grantaire suddenly interjected. "We of the Acedia know Orpheus' story better than anyone. He exists for us as a cautionary tale, you see. Anyway, Eurydice was half-dead under the rubble, and Orpheus sang to Ishtar, goddess of love, in the hope that she would tell Lucifer to call off the attack. It must have been the saddest song, because the Furies heard it and they wept."

Joly made a sound of disbelief. "The Kindly Ones can cry?" And Enjolras wondered if the boy was thinking about the Schism, remembering the way enormous talons had seared deep gashes into the skyscrapers of New Advent, the way gray hair and red eyes and vulture's wings had filled the world.

Grantaire smirked. "Only once. Only for Orpheus. They never forgave him for that. The Morningstar is cruel; he told Orpheus that Dis would retreat, if the Prince returned with them. Orpheus had to walk into the open chasm; he had to walk away from Eurydice, without looking back at her."

"But he did," said Combeferre gravely. "He looked back."

Grantaire nodded. "Yes. And the Furies, eager for vengeance, killed the girl right before his very eyes, and then they fell on him. They tore him to pieces, but Ishtar prevailed upon Lucifer to spare his life at the last minute. She brought his head back to the underground city, where he is now an oracle. Not a very good one, mind you."

"_I'll_ say," Feuilly remarked. "He told me to beware of trees. What're they going to do, turn on me?" He pondered his own statement for a second, and then looked at Enjolras. "They can't do that, can they?"

"I do not believe the Suicide Woods are particularly invested in this matter," said Enjolras.

"What's with you?" Combeferre asked Feuilly. "You know that forest like the back of your hand."

"They've been a little jumpy as of late," said Feuilly. "I think they can sense something's about to happen."

That was all he would comment on the subject, and into the lull that followed, Jehan mused, "A city of glass. A boy singing to a goddess as his love is lost to the waves… Of course he looked back."

"He didn't have to," Éponine muttered, dismantling the rifle and tossing its parts into the crate with more force than necessary. "He could have saved her and what was left. He shouldn't have looked back." She refused to meet Enjolras' eyes. "What an idiot."

* * *

They were in the training room. The harsh white light rained down on Éponine's slim form as she tested the balance of the double-edged blade in her hands. Attached to the hilt was about twelve feet of metal chain. Musichetta had christened this particular weapon Oathkeeper, and it was a rough approximation of the blades used by the Envy legion, who would be one of the hardest to fight because of their speed and cunning. Vainglory liked explosives and frost in equal measure; Wrath and Lust liked to charge headlong into the field, blazing; Greed preferred heavy armor and battle axes; Gluttony used their teeth and claws; Acedia usually hung back and shot arrows from afar. The demons of Envy were the shadows, the knives you never saw coming.

"I think this is more your style than mine, Joly," Éponine commented, studying Oathkeeper. But the other boy was busy teaching Combeferre and Grantaire how to use shuriken, while Bossuet walked Feuilly and Bahorel through the finer points of marksmanship. Jehan and Courfeyrac were on the sidelines, ready to intervene if something went wrong, and the Metatron were upstairs, determinedly turning a blind eye to the events going on beneath their feet.

Éponine turned to face Enjolras. "Right. Let's give this a shot." She sheathed the blade but kept her fingers poised over its hilt, legs apart and one knee slightly bent, half a heartbeat away from springing into action. "Whenever you're ready."

"I…" Enjolras glanced at the sword in his hand, a heavy blade named Excalibur. He was unused to mortal weapons, to steel and silver instead of fire and lightning. But he had to learn to use them, because their cutting edges had been cooled in holy water and he needed the element of nasty surprise. There was, however, another worry nagging at the back of his mind. "I don't want to hurt you, Éponine."

To his extreme discomposure, Jehan, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Joly burst into laughter.

"I didn't know your general had a sense of humor," Bossuet remarked to Grantaire.

"It tends to emerge at the most random moments," Grantaire affably replied.

Instead of joining in her friends' mirth, Éponine just stared at Enjolras. "You won't hurt me." Her voice was painfully cool.

Enjolras sighed. He gripped Excalibur's hilt with both hands, and then charged at her, extinguishing the hellfire that instinctively nipped at his heels. She dove forward, putting herself within striking distance; surprised, he drew back and his steps faltered, but her foot lashed out, slamming into his ribs and sending him reeling. The sword flew from his grasp and spun through the air, right in the direction of Combeferre, who kicked up a wall of ice which the blade sank through, stopping mere centimeters away from the demon's nose.

"This thing can cut through Vainglory ice?" Combeferre seemed unruffled after this near brush with yet another painful head wound. "Now I'm impressed." The ice melted into water, and he grabbed the sword and chucked it at Enjolras, who caught it in one open palm.

"Don't hold back," Éponine scolded him. "Your enemies won't."

_You are not my enemy, _Enjolras wanted to say. _You are my ghost, you are in my dreams, but you are not my enemy. _He couldn't tell her these things, because their time had passed, had been stolen away to somewhere he could no longer reach.

* * *

"_If you want to save her, you must lose her," Orpheus says, eyes glazed and voice soft._

"_I already did," Enjolras replies. "She no longer loves me."_

"_That should make it easier." In the waning candlelight, the oracle's young face is wreathed with a vague, eternal sadness. "Let her slip from your fingers. Let her become the sea."_

* * *

She gritted her teeth impatiently, watching him give Excalibur an experimental swing. "You have to practice. You have to learn how to fight against this kind of weapon. Oathkeeper is just metal, but the Envy legion's will be made of shadow. Much harder to throw off. You need to be at the top of your game."

He glared at her. "I know that."

"Then _act _like you do!" she snapped. "Come on!"

When he refused to budge, all her anxiety spilled out onto her tongue, because she was Éponine Thénardier and when it came right down to it she was not a good person. "It should be easy for you to try to kill me," she taunted, carried away by the thought of what was waiting for him in the underworld, carried too far. "Just pretend I'm Azelma."

Combeferre, Feuilly, Bahorel, and Grantaire dropped what they were doing and turned to her in shock, as Joly sucked in a sharp intake of breath. Enjolras' gaze darkened, and the smell of smoke began to stain the room.

"She looked for you, during the war. She asked where you went," Éponine continued, even as her mind screamed at her to stop talking. She needed to do this; she needed to find his anger, and there was no other way. She didn't have time to question her actions, to ask herself why she would so willingly misuse her sister's memory, would so unflinchingly drag its darkness into the merciless light of the present, if it would only save him. Her eyes were wet, but she refused to blink. "After the Requiem Street evacuation, she was sure you'd come looking for us. She was sure you'd find us. And you did, didn't you? On the last day-"

Éponine was unprepared for the sudden speed of Enjolras' movement. He lunged at her and she almost lost her footing as her body arched to the side to avoid the blow. Hellfire erupted in a circle around the two of them, shielding them from view. The heat of the flames licked at her clothes as she parried and thrust, metal clashing against metal, and she could only imagine what they must look like to the others, two silhouettes in a shimmering curtain of red and gold. He wielded Excalibur without finesse, but she, too, was out of her element- Oathkeeper flicked too small and fast in hands used to a heavy gunblade. The flat of the sword hissed at her exposed arms and smoke curled into her mouth and she carved cuts into his skin, the world made up of nothing but the blue eyes that had once burned for her and her alone.

_Fire of my blood, the air in my lungs, _Éponine thought wildly as she dodged his strikes, her vision blurred by heat and sweat. _The ocean to my sky, all I ever wanted-_

Their blades met again, and his strength drove her backwards, her feet inching along the tiles. There was only one way out, and it was going to hurt.

She slammed her forehead into his, wincing as the pain burst into stars behind her eyes. He staggered and she leapt backward, tossing Oathkeeper's chain in his direction and managing to wrap it around the hand closed over Excalibur's hilt. She tugged, but instead of successfully sliding the sword from his grasp, she ended up pulling Enjolras to her, and suddenly they were pressed against each other. He was looking down and she was looking up, the sword between their faces cool against her cheek as it reflected the light of the fires, the small double-edged blade almost at his throat and gleaming sapphire blue against his pale neck, their breath coming out in ragged gasps, his lips a whisper away from hers. Her hands were curled around Oathkeeper's hilt, making fists against his chest, and she could feel his heart racing, matching hers beat for beat.

Pain and yearning flickered over his features. He dipped his head, brushing the tip of her nose with his. Her eyelids fluttered of their own volition, because this, too, was memory, this nearness, this warmth. He would be gone tomorrow, perhaps for forever, and he was looking at her like she was all he had left.

But, in the end, he was the one who stepped away. The flames around them disappeared, leaving only faint trails of smoke, and he waited silently as she unwound the chain. She noticed his eyes were wet, like hers, and then she refused to even glance at his face at all.

"I carry her with me," he said at last, in a soft voice meant for her ears alone. "Every day. I think about her always. Believe that, if nothing else."

"I know you do," she grudgingly replied. The fight had unlocked a certain clarity within her; she felt like she could breathe again for the first time in years. All her defenses were falling away because there was only one more night, too little time for anything except the remnants of grace. "I've always known." What they had shared had been real. It was tainted now, impossible to return to, but it had been real.

She finished untangling the chain and it dropped to the floor with a loud clank. She walked away, dragging it behind her, leaving Enjolras to rub the life back into his numb hand.

* * *

"That was very confusing," Bossuet said to Joly in an undertone. "Who's Azelma? I think you should fill me in now."

Joly shrugged. The air in the training room was smeared with smoke, just like the street had been. He could almost hear the war again, could almost feel Éponine's tears on his forearms like raindrops. She had never cried since that day. She hadn't cried at Azelma's funeral or when she'd broken her arm during training. It was like she'd closed herself off from the world, turned into nothing but a tightly-coiled spring of sarcasm and anger. "It's not mine to share."

The past caught up with him later, though, when the only lights on the first floor came from the television screen and the weapons on the racks and the crucifixes around the Templars' necks. Bahorel and Éponine were snoring away on their respective beds, while everyone else was gathered on the couches, grumpy and wide awake.

"It's like an orchestra," Jehan said in amazement. "They even crescendo at the same time."

Musichetta sighed and turned up the volume of _Estelle et Némorin. _Beside her, Cosette's head was drooping on Marius' shoulder, but whenever there was a particularly loud snort from the two sleepers, she would straighten up once more, her opalescent eyes blinking.

Feuilly gestured at the screen. "I can't believe this soap is still running. Have they figured out they're brother and sister yet?"

"They're not," Courfeyrac told him. "Némorin isn't really Estelle's dad's child, but the mistress tricked him into thinking it was."

"Why did you tell me that?" Feuilly demanded, his face paling. "You've gone and spoiled the whole thing!"

"It's not like you still watch it, anyway," Courfeyrac protested. "Unless you're somehow getting our cable down there in Dis."

"Remember when Némorin's actor got possessed during the sixth anniversary live taping?" said Bossuet, nudging Joly.

"How could I forget?" grumbled the other boy. "It was horrible. He was supposed to profess his undying love, but he ended up trying to eat her face. And I mean _literally _eat it."

Grantaire laughed around the bottle of beer held to his lips. "The culprit was Choronzon. One of Beelzebub's dukes. He always hated that show."

"Eurgh, Beelzebub." Courfeyrac wrinkled his nose. "Look, I get the whole King of Gluttony shtick, but the flies are overkill."

"I hear he's named every single one of them," said Jehan in hushed, conspiratorial tones. He glanced at the demons for confirmation, somewhat shyly.

"That is a damnable lie," said Combeferre. "He only names the ones on his head."

Enjolras stood up. "If we cannot sleep, we might as well train some more."

The other demons booed him.

"My bruises have bruises!" Grantaire cried over the commotion.

Enjolras rolled his eyes and made for the training room. Joly found himself following. The lights automatically switched on when they entered, and Enjolras busied himself hurling knives at one of the cardboard targets.

"I had always wondered," said Joly, hands in his pockets, "how you managed to sleep through her obstructive apnea."

"For the last time, it's not obstructive apnea," said Enjolras. "She just likes making my life hell." The third throwing knife bounced off the target, and he hissed in frustration. "I got used to it, I suppose. But I'm not, anymore."

"You've been gone a long time," Joly solemnly agreed.

Enjolras paused, studying the knife in his hands. "How did you become Templars?" he asked. "You and her?"

"The Metatron approached her first. They were looking for people who had lost loved ones in the Schism. People who were able, people with grudges. They worked their way through the casualty reports and picked the ones who had suffered most. And then they came to me."

Enjolras' brow creased. "Because?"

"Do you remember my parents?" Joly cautiously asked. "They visited the apartment from time to time. I think I introduced you to them, in the hallway-"

"Yes," the demon interrupted. "I remember." He swallowed. "How…?"

"Felled by the arrows of Acedia, while they were trying to make a run for it," said Joly. "They were old, and Dad had terrible arthritis. They didn't have much of a chance." He could talk about this calmly, because he had already stared into the face of mourning and allowed it to pull him under. After the war, he'd bought one of those five-stages-of-acceptance booklets, determined to carry out all the steps with methodical precision. He got three pages in before tossing it into the nearest garbage can, and he'd simply just cried until his eyes were so sore it hurt to blink. He'd gone through the next few weeks in a daze, assisting in the restorations when he could, listening to the Metatron when they showed up at his doorstep and nodding blankly. He hadn't really snapped out of it until Éponine barged into his apartment with a determined bounce to her step and said, "First round of training starts tomorrow. Ready to kick demon ass?"

And Joly had nodded and never looked back.

"It wasn't Grantaire," Enjolras said hurriedly. "He was by my side almost the entire time, and he spent the war too drunk to fire a single shot. Our commanding officers told us to stick to our legions, but the four of them- Grantaire, Feuilly, Combeferre, and Bahorel- wouldn't leave me."

Joly grinned. "Of course they wouldn't have. You're stuck with those little bastards for the whole of eternity, I'm afraid. The chaos they raised in the apartment building! Like unruly puppies, the lot of them."

Enjolras flashed him a small half-smile. "When did you move out?"

"A year ago. I don't have a car, and, well, no one's taking the train anytime soon, so I had to find a place nearer the hospital where I work." Joly tipped his head to the side. "We did have some good times, though. Didn't we?"

"Yes," Enjolras murmured, his gaze still on the knife.

_Are you thinking about the walks in the park and drinking lattes on the sidewalk? _Joly wondered. _Do you remember all the movies, all the old inside jokes? Do you still love her? Because there were times- I swear there were times- when you glanced at her in the sunlight and I thought that I'd never seen anyone look at anybody else like that._

He swiftly banished these thoughts. They already had too much to worry about.

"Come on," said Joly, stepping forward and grabbing a knife from the crate. "I'll show you how to use these properly."

They practiced throwing until their arms were sore. They were serious for the most part, but a little bit of the old camaraderie returned as the blades sliced through the air. _You who used to be we, _every movement seemed to say. _You who were once my friend._

* * *

Éponine sat up in bed, blinking against the morning light. The Templar base was unnervingly quiet. She looked around and saw the angels asleep on the couches, heads bent in what seemed like uncomfortable positions- they would certainly wake up with awful cricks in their necks. Jehan, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Joly were eating breakfast at the dining table.

The demons were nowhere in sight, and neither were the weapon crates.

It crept up on her, the hollow ache that blossomed from the pit of her stomach and straight into the corners of her heart, until it felt like her entire chest was consumed by it. "They left?" she croaked.

The boys exchanged uneasy glances. Joly stood up and went over to her, kneeling at her side.

"Enjolras asked me to tell you," he said in a soft voice, his gaze earnest, "that he hopes you will be well- that he hopes you will have a good life, either with the new world under your feet or without it. He asked me to tell you…" He trailed off, because Éponine had started to cry, and then he continued, in more determined tones, over the sobs that wrenched loose from her throat, "that, come what may, you were the last good thing. He swears this by the Wolf, by the Mirror, and by the other side of the sky."

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	10. Sound and Fury

**Notes: **The ridiculously talented Emma has made another beautiful graphic for this fic ( girlbehindthescrawledletters . tumblr . c*m / post / 48934039250 / he-asked-me-to-tell-you-that-come-what-may-you ), check it out and follow her on Tumblr if you aren't already. I blame her and Jordan (amerrybrandybuck) for most of the angst that you'll find here. Thank you for the reviews, follows, and favorites, everyone! This is the longest chapter yet, and I hope you all like it. Feedback would be very much appreciated :)

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**Sound and Fury**

* * *

"You're making my head spin," Marius told Cosette with a tender smile, which she absentmindedly returned as she walked around the Templar headquarters, ripping off Metatron seals from files and maps, shredding authorization letters, removing anything on this mortal plane that could be traced back to the Silver City. Miles away, in Chinatown, Musichetta was closing up her shop and packing the remaining inventory that hadn't been donated to- _stolen by- _the rebellion. She'd been sadder about leaving, because, unlike Marius and Cosette, she'd been in New Advent for years.

"I'm not coming back, am I," she'd said last night, and it hadn't been a question.

"You might, if the revolution fails," Cosette had replied. "Granted, the Morningstar's government will launch an inquiry about the weapons, so you can't descend for a while, but once it all blows over…"

"And if the revolution succeeds," Musichetta had continued, "possession will be criminalized and the Order will be disbanded."

Cosette had touched the other angel's arm gently. "Do you really like it here?"

It had taken Musichetta a while to answer, but when she finally did, it was with none of her usual severity or coyness. "Yes, sister." Her dark eyes had softened. "I really do."

Cosette was brought back to the present when Éponine emerged from the bathroom, hair wet and cheeks flushed as if she'd scrubbed at her face harder than necessary.

"How are you feeling?" the angel asked kindly.

"Fine," the Templar muttered. She looked at Jehan, who was sitting on the couch with Courfeyrac, their feet propped up on the coffee table. "You ready to go?"

Courfeyrac cleared his throat. "About that, Ep…" He shifted uneasily. "We've been thinking- perhaps it's best if I fill in for you today."

Éponine's fists clenched at her sides. "I'm _fine," _she repeated through gritted teeth, although her eyes were still raw and her voice was raspier than usual.

"You're distracted," said Courfeyrac. "And exorcists can't afford to be."

"There probably won't be any possession today," Jehan hurriedly pointed out. "Lamarque is dead, and I'm sure they're busy preparing for his funeral down there. Courf and I will just be wasting our time on patrol, and you have to go to your apartment, Ep. You have to…" He trailed off.

_Save what's left, _were the unspoken words that hung in the air. _Salvage what you can._

As Éponine stood there, practically vibrating with barely controlled anger, Cosette bit her lip. She agreed with Jehan and Courfeyrac, but it was cruel to make the girl go alone. "Marius, you should accompany her."

"Of course," Marius said promptly, standing up. "Shall we, Éponine?"

Éponine's gaze skittered around the room. She had the look of a trapped animal, wild and desperate and defeated. Cosette had no idea what was going on, but she, too, had sensed the tension between the Templar and Enjolras, so thick it was almost palpable. Something had happened there, long ago, and Cosette was ethereal and made of light and she knew she would never be able to understand all that regret, all that lost love.

But she knew about strength, and that settled on Éponine's face, on the slope of her shoulders, as she nodded at Marius and they trooped out of the base.

Cosette resumed her clean-up, with Jehan and Courfeyrac's idle conversation in the background. She found a pile of Marius' notes buried in old budget statements and stifled a flicker of exasperation. Her partner was uncommonly disorganized; good thing he had her to keep him in line.

_The problem with you, Cosette, _she chided herself, _is that you are very prone to bad thoughts. _She'd been so bored in the Silver City that, when the usually placid ether started to swirl, her first reaction hadn't been dismay but, rather, excitement. What kind of angel went around welcoming signs of trouble?

She studied Marius' notes, letters and numbers framed in neat, sharp cursive. He'd focused mostly on the drug trade before casting it aside once they found out about the rebellion; Cosette hadn't had the heart to tell him then, but she'd always been of the opinion that the threat posed by the communion wafers wasn't enough to disturb the ether.

However, now that the data was all in front of her, laid out in tidy columns, the vague shape of a pattern nudged at her mind. She stared at the list of symptoms, the incidence reports, and the casualty statistics. When she found nothing, she turned her attention to the dates, doing quick calculations in her head. The days when the drug manifested the strongest effects, when the most people overdosed, were evenly spaced apart- it wasn't difficult to notice them; in graph form, they would have spiked. She scoured every inch of Marius' notes until she reached the end, and the interval remained consistent.

A gap of twenty-nine days between each big outbreak.

_Why twenty-nine? _she wondered, frowning slightly.

"Cosette?" said Courfeyrac.

The two boys had stood up and were now donning their cloaks, ready to go on patrol, but they were also looking at her tentatively, probably because she'd been as still as a statue for the past half hour.

Cosette smiled at them. "May I borrow a calendar?"

Jehan snatched one from the top of a nearby cabinet and handed it to her.

"Thank you," said Cosette as the Templars holstered their respective weapons. "Good hunting."

* * *

Marius shot Éponine a concerned glance as they got out of the car and she slammed the door with a hard bang that reverberated throughout Requiem Street.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Her lip curled. _If someone asks me that again… _She hated the fact that Jehan and Courfeyrac were tiptoeing around her, as if she could shatter at any given moment. They'd both seen her kick enough demon ass over the past few years to know that she wasn't some fragile thing, that it would take more than tears to break her. She didn't need an angel's solicitous inquiries, no matter how well-intentioned they were.

She remained silent, and Marius backed off. The apartment came into view- or what was left of it, anyway. The building looked like the Furies had bitten a huge chunk off its side; the first floor had been completely demolished, and the foundation had crumbled in on itself.

Éponine halted in front of the yellow police line cordoning off the area, staring at the debris as a sharp ache knotted in her throat. Everything was gone. Her life and her memories were reduced to charred wood and melted glass and ash-stained cement.

She was helpless against the onslaught of images that crashed over her. The past came roaring in like a wave. Burning, burning.

* * *

_She's never going to admit it out loud, but she loves Enjolras' penthouse suite. There's a mini-bar and a panel of windows overlooking the New Advent skyline as it gleams emerald in the black night, and the whole place is flooded in angel light. She hasn't been anywhere with white light in so long, and so, the first time he takes her to his home, she stares greedily at her reflection in his bedroom mirror. She is uglier in brightness, her cheeks too large for her face, her eyes small and squinty, but she is also more real, and she revels in it._

_She feels his hand on her shoulder, but she doesn't turn to him. "This is so weird," she says before she can gauge if they've been dating long enough for him to understand what she means._

_He does. "You were made for the shadows," he tells her, and that's when she tears her gaze away from the mirror to look at him, with her mouth curved in a smirk._

"_But could you light me up?" she asks._

_His blue eyes darken. He cups her face with both hands, his thumbs tracing patterns on her cheekbones. She recognizes the shapes he forms- the old runes, the old words. _Neb taui, _everything. _Bennu, _the fire bird, the awakening, the rebirth. _Di, _forever. _Nefer, _the most beautiful._

_He leans in and kisses her, tentatively at first, but she slides her arms around his neck and his lips become more urgent. They fall onto the bed, and this is real, they are real, she is real. Girl of shadows, ablaze._

* * *

_The first time she brings him to _her _home, she's a little wary. What would he think of this dinky apartment, with none of the luxuries he is used to? She's half-expecting pity or condescension to flicker over his features as he looks around the living room. The flat is quiet; it's past midnight and Azelma has long since gone to bed, because she's learned to never wait up for Éponine or anyone else._

_Enjolras clears his throat. The green lights are off, but the yellow lamp on the side table sends its soft glow into the air. "This light," he says, "is easier on the eyes."_

But not on you, _she thinks. In black and gold, his paleness is almost sickly. Shadows pool in strange angles on his aristocratic face. He is distorted to her, a boy of muddled pieces._

"_Come on," she says. "Let's put you back together again."_

_He must have no idea what she means, but there's no mistaking the tone in her voice. He takes her hand, and she leads him to her bedroom._

* * *

And back, further back, because she can't think about him without thinking about Azelma, because the human mind is not linear. It is made up of the things it remembers the most.

* * *

_It's Sunday afternoon and someone's knocking. She thinks Joly must be running low on Echinacea tea again, which he always consumes by the bucketful during flu season, but when she opens the door, it's not her neighbor standing in the hallway. It's her little sister, whom she hasn't seen in months, nursing a bruised cheek and putting all her weight on one foot._

"_I'm going to kill the old man!" Éponine growls, and Azelma flinches._

_The older sister ushers the younger one inside and seats her on the couch. "How did you know where to find me?"_

_Azelma shrugs, lips sealed tight._

"_You walked all the way here?"_

"_I took the train," says the child._

_Éponine doesn't bother to ask about Gavroche. The teenager has been too starved for his parents' approval ever since they deigned to allow him to return to the family; he wouldn't have lifted a finger to help._

"_Well, you can't go back," Éponine tells Azelma. "You'll stay with me."_

_Azelma nods, and Éponine has no idea how to do this, how to take care of a child, but she will clean out the spare room and stock the pantry, and she hopes that, in time, she will learn how to be gentle._

* * *

Forward again, forward. Her mind travels to months before the Schism while her eyes stare at the smoldering ruins of what once was, at the metal wires that were all that was left of the walls that had shielded the place she had tried so hard to make for herself, for them.

* * *

_Over dinner, Enjolras frowns in the direction of Azelma, who's happily munching on a chocolate bar. "That can't be good for her," he says to Éponine._

_Éponine shrugs. "I eat chocolate for dinner whenever I want."_

"_Yes, but you're hopeless," he retorts. "Azelma, if you have some chicken and legumes, I will buy you _two _chocolate bars."_

_The child regards him with searching dark eyes. "What kind?"_

"_Sheba. The one with praline."_

_Azelma puts the candy down. "Okay."_

"_But you have to brush your teeth after eating them," Enjolras continues._

"_Then I want three."_

"_Don't push it."_

_Éponine ducks her head to hide her smile._

* * *

_You should be here, _she thought now, against all reason, even though she didn't love him anymore, even though he was going off to war in the world beneath her feet. _Everything's gone, and you didn't even stick around to look. Why didn't you say goodbye? Why aren't you here with me? _She was trembling in front of the ashes, under a merciless gray sky. _Why did you go somewhere I can't follow? _She wanted him back, she wanted all of it back-

"Éponine." Marius' hand curled at her elbow, and she instinctively leaned into his warm touch, seeking comfort, seeking reprieve from the crushing loneliness. Her eyes stung, but she had already wrung her tear ducts dry this morning.

"Í am terribly sorry," Marius continued, and he drew her into his arms. He wasn't Enjolras, but he was close, and she would take what she could get, she would let him lead her to salvation. She buried her face in his chest and he whispered benedictions into her hair. The hymns of the Silver City. Angel light. Grace.

* * *

It was late morning in New Advent, but early evening in Dis. Deep within the bowels of the Shrieking Castle, in the Chamber of Heresies that none but the sovereigns could enter, a red fire blossomed in the black hearth, illuminating the seven figures seated around a large rectangular table made of pearl-white bones.

Lucifer, the Morningstar, King of Kings, scowled at the conspicuously empty chair between Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, and Mammon, god of riches. "Where is Aergia? Why has she failed to answer my summons?"

"Probably couldn't be arsed," said Baal. "She calls it melancholy, I just call it laziness-" He broke off as a cloud of Beelzebub's flies flew straight at him, and he impatiently swatted the insects away. "Control your children, my lord!" he admonished.

"They're not hurting you," muttered Beelzebub, in his voice that sounded like scaled things slithering in the dirt.

Lucifer leaned back with a sigh, propping his elbow on the chair's clawed arm and studying the company assembled before him. He was in appearance a frail young man, with silvery hair and eyes the color of amethysts. He didn't look strong enough to wield a sword, let alone control an entire realm, but his hellfire could devour in mere seconds, and he was devious, and, above all, he held the threat of Limbo over everyone's heads.

Nemesis had chosen the darkest corner of the table, and she spoke up now, from the shadows. "I suppose we're here to discuss Lamarque's funeral."

"Funeral, bah!" Baal spat out. "I'd rather have a parade. His death is the best thing that has happened to me in centuries." Lightning crackled in his clenched fist, but it was quickly doused by a veil of ice that encased his hand and trapped it in place.

"None of that," said his brother Belial. "You singed my hair last time."

Baal's crimson eyes flashed. The ice disappeared in a blaze of hellfire. "You _dare?"_

"I dare many things," the King of Vainglory remarked with a hint of cold disdain. They glared at each other, Anger and Pride, the twins Baal and Belial.

"Boys," purred Ishtar, voice smoky sweet and hair like blood, "can we save the gratuitous machismo for another day? We have more important things to take care of." To Lucifer, she said, "There _has _to be a funeral, my liege. Full military honors. Lamarque was a war hero, one of the finest generals, and beloved by the Untitled. They will grow restless if he is buried without ceremony."

"It's them growing restless _at _the ceremony that I'm worried about," Lucifer drawled. "What say you, Nemesis?"

The shadows shifted, revealing the slope of a high nose, the alabaster curve of a pointed chin, the smirk of midnight lips. "My spies have not discovered anything untoward," the Queen of Envy replied. "However, I believe I have previously broached the subject of Enjolras and his friends-"

"Enjolras and his friends are _nothing!" _Mammon interrupted, which would have been rude if it hadn't been expected of him as the King of Greed. "They are little boys who spent too long a time on the surface and came back with all sorts of foolish notions! Abolishing the hierarchy- such nonsense. Where would we all be, then? They know nothing of the world, these crazy children."

"It is the young who are the most dangerous," Nemesis insisted. "They might stage a protest, or something bigger."

"Let them stage it," said Beelzebub. "The guards will be ready for them. They do not have popular support, anyway. The Untitled fear us, as they should."

"Nevertheless, we should be prepared," said Nemesis. "We must start waking the Nightmare Child now, if it is to stir in time for the funeral."

Ishtar raised an eyebrow. "That's a bit drastic, isn't it? How can a proper ceremony be conducted with that thing screaming in the background?"

Baal sneered. "Of course the lady Ishtar would want to do right by her _friend."_

"He was my friend and nothing more," said Ishtar. Her tone was calm enough, but fires banked low in the depths of her silver gaze. "And before he was even that, he was _your _general. First Lamarque, now Enjolras- is the Wrath legion so sorely discontent? You tell the King of Gluttony to keep his little insects in line, but it seems to me he does a better job than you do."

Beelzebub perked up. "Hey, that's right!" He pointed a greasy finger at Baal. "You are a filthy hypocrite."

"If anyone is filthy here, it is you, Lord of the Flies," growled Baal.

Lucifer rested his temple against the curl of his fingers. This was why he rarely orchestrated council meetings; the dynamic among the Seven was characterized solely by varying degrees of patronizing tolerance and abject loathing, and it was amazing- it really was- how one could so swiftly become the other.

"I feel a headache coming on," he announced, and the room fell silent. "Hear me now: tomorrow, a funeral with full military honors, and the legions on high alert. In the meantime, Envy, keep your spies working through the night. If they find concrete evidence of… trouble, we shall awaken the Nightmare Child. As for you three-" He gestured lazily to Baal, Belial, and Ishtar, one by one- "Wrath, Vainglory, and Lust- try to keep your boys on their leashes, won't you? But if they refuse, ah, well…" He smiled thinly. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow, we will see."

* * *

Cosette drew Marius aside once he and Éponine returned to headquarters. She held up the calendar, on which she'd marked the relevant dates.

"Twenty-nine days," she said. "The drug is at its strongest during full moon."

"I do not follow," replied Marius.

She sighed, the urgency of the situation letting her annoyance slip through, just a little bit. "What other chemical waxes and wanes with the lunar cycle?"

Marius thought for a while, scratching his head. When it finally dawned on him, he froze, green eyes widening. "Vestal light."

Cosette nodded. "The trade in communion wafers sprung up after the war. Intoxicated humans say the drug brings them to a higher plane of existence. Too much, and their minds grow soft. Too much all at once, and it eats them from the inside out."

"But at war's end the vestal weapons were taken to the Silver City and destroyed," Marius protested. "The fires went on for days in the Cathedral. Don't you remember? I couldn't get the smell out of my clothes."

"We must have missed some of it, and the Five Families found a way to use it to their advantage." Across the room, Éponine slammed the refrigerator door shut, and Cosette lowered her voice. "I have spoken with our superiors. Our recall has been postponed until tomorrow night. We need to get to the bottom of this before then."

"All right," said Marius. "I have already noted that most of the activity seems to radiate from the docks, spreading out to Mourning and Pine, so we should start there…"

"One last thing," said Cosette, this time a touch unsteadily. "We have been instructed to act outside jurisdiction."

Marius gulped.

* * *

Dawn was a weak and pallid thing in the City of Dis, which preferred its hot red afternoons and its long dark nights. But, for once, the entire realm was stirring and buzzing as faint watery light broke through the clouds, falling on the demons gathered in the public square for Lamarque's funeral. At the head of the crowd, the old general lay in state on a bier fashioned from jagged volcanic rock and brimstone, dressed in the red coat, black trousers, and black boots of the Wrath legion- a uniform echoed by the trio of demons standing behind his body, facing the gathering. He had named them in his will, stating that he wished to be cremated by his truest friends: Enjolras, Azazel, and Ninurta.

The last of these three tipped his head slightly in Enjolras' direction. "Where is Orpheus?" Ninurta asked out of the corner of his mouth.

Enjolras scanned the crowd and found no sign of the oracle, who had promised yesterday to kindle the flame of rebellion with his voice. He saw only a sea of Untitled, gaunt and hollow-eyed, providing a stark contrast to the aristocrats in all their finery and the guards in their polished armor. He saw his friends positioned at strategic locations around the courtyard, and he caught Combeferre's eye. The Duke of Vainglory gave him a helpless shrug; two of the imps were supposed to bring Orpheus here, but that didn't seem to be happening anytime soon.

Lastly, Enjolras gazed up. The Kings and Queens were observing the proceedings from one of the towering balconies, all of them wearing expressions that ranged from boredom to impatience. _You look but you do not see, _he thought, glowering at them. _The people crawl at your feet. They pray to you for relief, which you do not offer. You are glad only that Lamarque is gone._

But the general's cause would live on. Oh, how it would.

"We have to start, oracle or not," Azazel muttered. "Remember, Enjolras, take out Wrath and Lust first." These two legions always comprised the first offense, and disabling them would send the other five sprawling into confusion. Thanks to Dis' predictable arrangements, the yellow flame insignias of Wrath and the crimson rose of Lust streamed next to each other in the air, with their respective legions gathered around them. Unbeknownst to them, there was a smattering of little explosives planted at their feet, devices made by Combeferre and the other Vainglory demons in the Resistance, needing only the slightest lick of flame to ignite.

"Do it now," Azazel continued, "before they notice everyone else is giving them a wide berth."

"Orpheus…" Enjolras began, and then subsided. They were running out of time; the gap in the crowd was already startlingly conspicuous, and he knew- before he even looked up to check- that some of the Seven were frowning speculatively.

He would have liked things to start with a song, though. It seemed rather anticlimactic, without.

But if there was one lesson he'd learned from his time in New Advent, it was that things rarely went according to plan.

_Do not think of her, _he told himself sternly. _This fight is for her, as well. _He had to stop the invasion. He wanted to save her, and so he had let her go.

Enjolras took a deep breath, and stepped forward.

* * *

Combeferre had been waiting for this moment ever since the other aristocrats laughed his last batch of carefully-thought-out reforms out of the Shrieking Castle. He could feel it now, the excitement in his pulse, the adrenaline flowing through his veins. The world was clearer, brighter; it was this heightened state that allowed him to spot the two imps flying over the crowd, bearing the head of Orpheus between them. Their wings flapped unsteadily, their flight an erratic curve through the air. When they got close enough, Combeferre realized the furry brown creatures were covered in angry dark wounds.

The imps fell to the ground, Orpheus rolling from their grasp and dropping at Combeferre's feet. This little scene went unnoticed for the most part, because the crowd was focusing on Lamarque's bier. The few aristocrats who _did _notice merely sniffed and inched away, disgusted but not surprised by what they thought was the result of another uncivilized brawl in the slums.

"What happened?" Combeferre asked in a low voice as he picked Orpheus up.

One of the imps was already dead, bleeding out on the soil. The surviving one mewled pitifully, its tiny hands scrabbling as the life ebbed from its body. "Eve's ravens," it croaked, a torn wing beating uselessly at its side. "Waiting for us. We killed them all, but-"

"But you have fought well," murmured Combeferre. "Two triumphant against many. That's good. Die well now, little one."

The imp had strength for one last nod, and then it closed its eyes, its body moving again only when one of the aristocrats uncaringly nudged it away from him with a heavy boot.

Combeferre raised the oracle's head, holding it above the crowd. From his place at Lamarque's side, Enjolras' thunderous expression flickered with relief.

"Orpheus," said Combeferre.

The man's eyes opened, and he began to sing.

It was a song of revolution, a song for small lives. Its melody drifted through the air, gradually increasing in volume until ears pricked up and heads turned. On the balcony, the sovereigns leaned forward, and by the bier, fire and lightning crackled in Enjolras' open palm.

Orpheus sang of the lash and the chain, of scarred backs and bent knees, of days of mud and froth. His words were hunger and dungeons; his voice was the drum of war, the searing flames of anarchy. His was the anthem of those who had worked themselves to the bone, those who had watched loved ones die, those who had had enough. His song was the screaming in the Tartarus Pits, the whispers of the Suicide Woods. It was the look on Lamarque's face when the King of Greed ordered an entire street razed to the ground for failing to pay their taxes. It was the murmur of discontentment that had sprouted after the Schism, when waves upon waves of minor demons, who had tasted freedom in New Advent, were forced to return to a land that cared only for hierarchy and tradition.

Combeferre felt it deep in his stomach. It resonated through the chambers of his heart. And when he glanced at the faces around him, he knew he was not alone.

The song faded, but its echoes remained. This was the magic of Orpheus, he who had made the Furies weep, he who had looked back. _Unfair, unfair. _This message crept through the Untitled, making them straighten up, making their fists clench. _Enough. Unfair._

Enjolras was smiling. The strange light in his blue eyes made a chill go down Combeferre's spine.

"Citizens," said Enjolras, his voice resonating in the tight-lipped silence of the assembled demons, in the cold gray dawn of the underworld, "today I lay a dear friend to rest. I carry his struggle with me as I carry all the ghosts of those I have loved." The blaze in his hand roared, and he drew back as if to hurl it at Lamarque's body, to begin the cremation. He met Combeferre's eyes again, and his smile widened as he intoned, "All hail the Morningstar."

He shifted position at the last second, and sent the ball of fire and lightning over the audience, directly into the troops of Wrath and Lust, at the bombs waiting in the dirt.

Right before the world exploded, Combeferre heard a high-pitched, keening noise from afar. It grated on the nerves, it made the blood run cold. The scream of the Nightmare Child.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	11. Into the Night

**Notes: **Dear readers, your support means the world to me, and I tried to handle this chapter as best as I could. I hope that we will still be friends.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

**Into the Night**

* * *

Their coffeemaker was lying atop a heap of rubbish in the dumpster outside the Musain, so Joly steeped a pot of his beloved Echinacea tea and poured cups for Bossuet, Courfeyrac, and Éponine. Jehan had left for work, and it was time for the night shift, but the chances of anyone surfacing from Dis at this point were slim enough to afford the Templars the luxury of dawdling. The four of them were gathered around the coffee table pretending to watch _Estelle et Némorin, _although the volume was turned down so low it was almost inaudible.

Finally, Bossuet asked, "Do you think it's started?"

Courfeyrac checked his wristwatch. "It's morning down under, so probably, yeah. State funerals are always held at dawn, aren't they?"

"If there was a funeral in the first place," said Éponine. "Lamarque isn't exactly the sovereigns' favorite person."

They fell into silence, each one contemplating the many ways the plan could have gone wrong if the cremation hadn't occurred- and the many ways it could have gone wrong, anyway.

"So!" Joly said brightly, looking around. "Where are the Metatron? Have they gone back to the Silver City?"

"No, and that was weird," Éponine replied with a frown. "They were supposed to be recalled today, but they said they had to tie up loose ends. They left the base a few hours ago after asking me about Montparnasse- where he usually hung out, stuff like that."

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. "Are they still looking into the drug syndicates? How..." He shot Bossuet and Joly a conspiratorial glance. "How very _diligent."_

The two other boys burst into laughter. Éponine blinked at them in confusion. "What am I missing?"

"N- nothing!" Bossuet squeaked. He then pantomimed writing something down, with his eyes crossed and his tongue poking out the side of his lips, holding an imaginary sheet of paper almost to his nose, an expression of comical earnestness on his features. It took Éponine a few seconds to realize he was imitating Marius.

"You assholes!" she exclaimed as Courfeyrac and Joly doubled over, clutching stomachs that ached from mirth.

"Look at me, I'm an angel," said Bossuet in an unnaturally deep yet breathless voice, which made Courfeyrac and Joly howl even louder, wiping tears from their eyes. "I write things. I make notes. Fear my feather quill!"

Éponine glared at them, crossing her arms. "Not funny."

"Yeah, yeah, you're moony for the Metatron, we know," said Courfeyrac dismissively. "But, Ep, you have to admit, he's kind of a dork."

"Plus I think he's got a thing for his partner," Bossuet added. "Not that _I _wouldn't- she's gorgeous."

"Shut up," Éponine muttered, a sour taste in her mouth.

Joly stopped laughing. Even after all this time, he was still the one who knew her best. He sent her a small, apologetic smile, and this sudden solemnity was eventually picked up on by the other boys. The hilarity faded away, leaving only another tense silence.

Onscreen, Estelle, Némorin, and their friends were sunning themselves on a beach. It was one of those filler episodes that everybody hated but the network continued producing.

"Feuilly adored this show," Joly remarked to Éponine.

She snorted. "Tell me about it. He came over to watch it all the time, because he and Bahorel didn't have cable at their place."

"And if you guys were out, he'd mosey over to my apartment," said Joly. "He knew the plotlines better than I did."

Bossuet smirked. "I find that hard to believe." Courfeyrac fervently nodded in agreement.

_They don't know, _Éponine thought almost wistfully. _They don't know how deeply Feuilly studied the things he cared about. How Bahorel loved scooping Azelma into his arms and spinning her around. How Combeferre went to the docks everyday just to look at the ocean. How Grantaire hummed cheesy songs under his breath when he thought no one could hear._

Joly nudged her knee with his, and the line of her mouth softened with gratitude for this tiny act of sympathy and comfort. A look of understanding passed between them. _They were our friends. No matter what happened afterwards, they were our friends and that has to count for something. And now they could be dead or dying beneath our feet, for all we know._

"You think they're going to be okay?" Bossuet asked. "I mean, Lamarque died too soon. We didn't have enough time to train them, to plan out the attack as well as we could have-"

"Not everyone has your rotten luck, my friend," Courfeyrac reminded him teasingly. And then he continued, in a graver tone, "We did what we could, and now it's up to them. They have power and allies and weapons. That's all right, isn't it?"

"They'll be fine," agreed Joly, ever the optimist in all matters except the ones concerning his health. "Even if they weren't that ready."

Éponine knew what he meant, and she was pretty sure Bossuet and Courfeyrac did, too. They'd been all nerves on their respective first exorcisms, movements uncertain and palms slick with sweat. Their bodies carried scars and memories of bruise and fracture. They were better at it now, but, looking back on the immediate aftermath of the war, they were once only kids with a bone to pick, raring yet unready.

But there were some things that had to be done. Sometimes you just had to go in like you'd been preparing your whole life.

* * *

Ninurta was dead, battered to a pulp by the war hammers of the Greed legion. Azazel and Enjolras had left his body behind as they and their remaining troops marched on to the capitol district, over which towered the spiked turrets of the Shrieking Castle, Lucifer's fortress.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, Enjolras was aware that there were fewer of them than he'd hoped for. Quite a lot of the Untitled had taken one look at the Nightmare Child and flown back to the slums, crying out in fear, and Ishtar, furious about her losses, was at the top of her game, decimating an entire Resistance platoon in one burst of hellfire. But, as per the plan, the revolutionaries had scattered all over Dis, so that the forces under Enjolras and Azazel's command would only have Greed and Vainglory to contend with when they stormed the capitol district.

"How were they able to wake Nightmare in time?" Enjolras demanded.

Azazel shrugged, a thin line of ichor dripping down his temple, and more ichor staining the makeshift bandages wrapped around his stomach. "Nemesis knew. She always knows, in the end. Inescapable."

Enjolras fought back a shudder. He desperately hoped Combeferre and Grantaire were all right and holding their own against Envy and the Furies.

"Incoming!" someone screamed, and Enjolras looked up to see a swarm of cannonballs blotting out the sky, bearing down upon them like rain.

"Raise the shields!" he shouted, and Vainglory artillery met Vainglory ice, the air exploding in swirls of smoke and frost. Brother fighting against brother- the sacrifice on which his new world would be built.

A small dark shape swooped into the midst of the chaos, resting on Enjolras' shoulder. "Message from the Waste Lands," croaked the imp. "They've taken down what was left of Wrath, but they're still battling the Nightmare Child. Lilith believes the others more than capable, so she's leaving them. She's on her way to you."

"Tell her to stay there!" Enjolras snapped. "Nightmare is not to be underestimated!"

Azazel spoke up. "We need Lilith, my Prince."

"But-" _My friends are there. Don't let them die._

Sacrifice.

Before Enjolras could come to a decision, another barrage of cannonballs rose up from the ranks of the Morningstar's loyalists. The Resistance demons tried to conjure their walls of ice again, but most were low-ranking in the hierarchy and thus not as powerful over the element of frost. The first round had sapped their strength; ice melted as soon as it appeared.

However, before the cannonballs could make contact, they were devoured by streams of red-gold flame that abruptly lashed through the air, in the shape of serpentine dragon-heads. The heat skimmed over Enjolras' upturned face, and Azazel smiled as a slender winged figure floated to the ground in front of them, smoke trailing from her dark fingers, golden eyes gleaming. There was only one demon in all of Dis who shaped her hellfire like that, who wielded it like whips. Lilith, Lady Air, Marchioness of Gluttony, and harbinger of plague.

"Good job with the holy water," she told Enjolras. "Wrath never knew what hit them." Her dragon-fire reared up all around them in a protective circle, snapping and hissing. With a lazy flick of her wrist, she sent one careening into a nearby enemy squad. "But this is all that's left of you?" she asked over the screams and sobs, frowning at Enjolras and Azazel's troops.

"No need to sound so smug," Azazel drawled.

"I'm not being smug. The Nightmare Child is wounded and faltering now, but it wiped out more than half of us. Where are the people?"

"The chains sink deep, my lady," murmured the imp on Enjolras' shoulder. "Limbo dampens the spirit."

"That will be all," Enjolras tersely admonished. "Take a message to Combeferre. Tell him I'm almost at the capitol; he _has _to keep the Furies away from it. Is that clear?"

The imp nodded and flew off. Enjolras turned to Lilith. "Your orders were to stay in the Waste Lands."

"Oh, like you didn't need my help?" she retorted.

"Feuilly and Bahorel-"

"Will do what they must," Lilith interrupted. "Your objective right now is the Morningstar. Where is he?"

"Cowering in his castle," Azazel replied.

The dragons burned brighter, mimicking the glow in Lilith's eyes. "Well, then, let's go get him."

* * *

"This fucking thing!" Bahorel yelled as another slap from the Nightmare Child's tentacles shook the earth, driving him back, his feet skidding on the ground and stopping a few paces short of Feuilly. "Why won't it _die?"_

Their battalion had at last successfully lured the monster from the Shrieking Castle, leaving the way clear for Enjolras and the generals to begin their siege. Now they were hashing it out on the parched plains of the Waste Lands, with corpses sprawled all around them and the outline of distant mountains shimmering in the red heat.

"We have to end this!" Feuilly cried over the Nightmare Child's harsh, grating screams. "We can't afford to lose any more men!"

"You think I don't know that?" Bahorel growled.

"Well, damn, _sorry-"_

The Nightmare Child lumbered towards them, oozing ichor and shadows, its black mantle flashing with tinges of green under the sun's rays, its enormous form filling the world with darkness and the smell of carrion. Demons pelted it with fireballs from all sides, but it simply waded through the flames, unperturbed.

Feuilly aimed his gun at it and fired off several rounds, causing it to stagger as the holy water in the bullets seared its flesh. It wailed again, even louder and shriller than before, and Feuilly swore his eardrums had popped. "How is it even doing that? Where's its _mouth?"_

"Now is no time to be acting like Combeferre," said Bahorel, hurling a grenade which exploded against the beast's underside. It reared back just as a demon swooped in close, only to be grabbed midflight by one huge tentacle. Feuilly and Bahorel watched in horror as their hapless comrade was swallowed by a hole that had opened somewhere in the mantle, rimmed with hundreds of sharp teeth.

"So that's where the mouth is," Feuilly mused, almost to himself, but he was soon distracted by the grin that had started to blossom on Bahorel's face.

That grin was never a good sign.

"Um, what are you doing?" Feuilly asked as Bahorel retrieved more grenades from the cache and shoved them into his coat pockets.

"My dear," said Bahorel, "I go to glory."

And he ran straight into the arms of nightmare, Bahorel of the Lust legion, almost a lord, always a roar, always larger than life. The tentacles snatched him up. The mouth opened wide.

* * *

In the midnight gloom of Templar headquarters, Éponine tossed and turned in her bunk, her mind ridden with worry. Gillenormand had growled over the phone that she'd already missed too many shifts, and she was in danger of getting fired if she didn't come in next week.

The truth was, Éponine could hardly care about her job right now, but it was the only problem she could do something about, and so she seized it with ferocious intensity. _Tomorrow I'll go shopping for new clothes and shoes, _she told herself, staring up at the ceiling. _I'll stay here at the base until I can afford a new apartment. There are cheap ones along Coffin Boulevard; I'll look into that. I will pick up the pieces of my life, as I did after I left the family, as I did after the Schism. I will go on, like always. I will always know my way around._

_But could you really go on, if the revolution fails? _whispered her treacherous inner voice. _Could you really go on, with him dead?_

She sat up, a snarl of frustration tearing itself loose from her throat. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she saw Joly's silhouette at the dining table. She was about to call out, to ask him what he was doing, but she registered the stooped shoulders, the bent head resting on folded palms.

Modern New Advent didn't have any major organized religions. There were the little cults that venerated certain angels such as Samael, the Seraphim commander that had driven the Fury Alecto back into the chasm; there was Ishtar's church, its members calling themselves the Unforgiven, who had felt her touch during the days of peace and were loath to let it go. But most citizens, when they did pray, prayed to the void, the space between the realms, which was said to govern the laws of the universe and the vagaries of chance.

It was too dark to read Joly's lips as they moved soundlessly, but Éponine could guess what he was asking the void for. There were certain chants that every child on the surface knew by heart. _Evening star, watch over me. Red planet, guide me home._

And there was also the one addressed to the moon, the only prayer that Joly could possibly be saying now. Éponine blocked out the words as soon as she thought of them; the void cared nothing for her, and she'd made fun of it so many times that it would probably do the opposite of what she wanted, just out of spite.

She leaned against the wall. Darkness settled into pinpricks on her lashes. She had always had difficulty falling asleep in new places, even in the time before.

* * *

_The skyline glows silvery green beyond the windows of Enjolras' penthouse suite. Golden fire dances in the hearth, warming her bare skin. She stretches luxuriously on the carpet, rubbing her back on the soft fur. Enjolras, eyes half-closed the way they always are in the afterglow, presses a slow, drowsy kiss to her shoulder._

"_That was fairly pleasant," he mumbles against her skin._

_She pinches his nose. "I missed you, too, you dork." They hadn't seen each other in days; he'd been working overtime on a particularly intricate lawsuit, and, so, when she stepped out of Montfermeil after her shift a few hours ago and saw him standing on the sidewalk, waiting for her, she'd been so overjoyed that she'd squealed and thrown herself into his arms, raining scarlet-lipstick pecks on every inch of his face that she could reach. They've gotten to that point in dating where it's okay to miss each other, to be glad to see each other._

"_Can't breathe," he says, tugging at her wrist to remove her grip from his nose. He holds the offending hand in his, lacing their fingers together and placing them on his chest._

_She glances at the clock on the wall. "It's pretty late. I should get going."_

_He nips her earlobe. "Or you could stay the night."_

_She laughs, to cover up her awkwardness. "Thanks, but it takes me hours to fall sleep in new places. I'd be a zombie tomorrow." It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth, either. Staying the night will mean waking up to him in the morning, her dreams tangled with his. She's not sure if she's ready for that kind of intimacy._

_He turns to face her, sliding a palm up the curve of her waist, and then to the small of her back, holding her closer to him. "These are my arms," he says quietly, his features soft in the firelight. "This is not a new place."_

_When she still peers at him doubtfully, he continues, in slightly tetchier tones, "I bought ice cream."_

_And she laughs again, and this time it's genuine. "Okay," she says, grinning. "Let's give it a shot."_

_It's not perfect. She takes up more than half of the bed due to her unorthodox sleeping positions, and he steals the pillows to retaliate. He tries to snuggle, but she nudges him away because it's too warm. He keeps poking her because she won't stop snoring._

_When the sun finds them in the morning, they're both grumpy, ashen-faced, and baggy-eyed._

"_I told you this was a bad idea," Éponine grunts._

_Enjolras wearily rubs his chin, mulling it over. "Perhaps we shall have better luck at your apartment," he suggests._

_And in the two years to come, this is what will always get her about him- how he tries so hard to make things work. How he never rests until it all turns out okay._

* * *

The obsidian surface of the Styx boiled and gurgled in its banks, as if the river itself felt the turmoil currently tearing the land apart. Water trickled out of Combeferre's ears and dripped from his clothes as he hauled himself onto the shore after a blow from the Fury Megaera's wing had pitched him into the river. He ducked to avoid the shadow knives hurled his way by a couple of Envy demons, drawing his pistol in the same swift movement and firing at them, always eternally grateful for the fact that Templar weapons were waterproof. The attackers dropped to the ground, screaming as the white light of holy water tore them apart, and another revolutionary finished them off in a swath of hellfire.

_Where in blazes is Grantaire? _Combeferre thought angrily. He could definitely use the Marquis' power of invisibility, now that they were battling fucking _ninjas._

Tisiphone was already heavily wounded, no longer able to fly and hissing at the demons that tried to approach her, slashing at their stomachs with her monstrous claws. Megaera was tracing circles in the sky, occasionally swooping down to wreak havoc on Resistance squadrons.

Alecto was nowhere to be found, and this worried Combeferre. What if she'd flown to the capitol district? The imp's message from Enjolras had been clear: _Keep the Kindly Ones away from me._

_The old girl hasn't been the same since Samael injured her in the Schism, _Combeferre consoled himself. _And the Furies work best in threes. They can handle her alone._

A length of chain darted out from seemingly nowhere, wrapping around the barrel of the gun. The Templars had trained him for this; he let go of his weapon and leapt to the side, the double-edged blade only managing to graze his sleeve and nothing more, and the assailant ended up smacking into the wall of ice that Combeferre hurriedly conjured on the spot where he'd previously been standing.

"Oof," muttered the Envy demon through the black mask covering half its face. Silver eyes narrowed at Combeferre, followed by a swarm of throwing stars.

The Duke of Vainglory had no choice but to dive behind the nearest boulder, which shuddered and cracked as the shadow blades sank deep. He blinked in confusion as his palm rested on something warm, and when he looked down it turned out to be Grantaire's crotch.

"Darling," the Marquis of Acedia slurred, his breath releasing toxic fumes of asphodel wine, "this is a rather bad time to start hitting on me, isn't it?"

Combeferre snatched his hand away and used it to smack Grantaire upside the head. _"This is a revolution!" _he yelled, throwing calm to the wind. _"Why are you drunk?"_

Grantaire's pale, red-rimmed eyes stared blearily at the withered treetops that rustled overhead in the wind beating from Megaera's vulture wings. "Why shouldn't I drink?" he grumbled. "This is indeed a revolution, but it is not _mine. _Why shouldn't I drink? My doom draws nearer. The oracle told me so. I will bleed for you all, but, first, I shall find solace in my cups."

"What do you think we're fighting for?" Combeferre demanded. "You- you oaf! I have slain my brothers so that the Throne of Isis and all the oaths may be broken, so that destiny may change. Fate can be rewritten."

Grantaire's lips curved in a sardonic smirk. "Not my fate, I fear." And then he would say no more, choosing instead to hum some bawdy tune, his head lolling to the side.

Combeferre sighed in frustration, and then rushed back to the battlefield. Megaera spotted him, and dove.

_The river, _he thought wildly, desperately. He waded into the churning currents of the Styx, and the Fury followed him, nipping at his heels. He had to time this right. One last gamble. He waited until Megaera was directly on top of the river, almost upon him, and he summoned all of his power, all of his strength, all the cunning that he'd accumulated throughout the years. He raised his arms and the waves roared up like pillars beneath Megaera-

- And he froze the river.

The pillars of water hardened into black icicles, and the Fury shrieked as their sharp points impaled her. Ichor gushed out, splattering on Combeferre's face and clothes like thick rain. All the combatants stopped in their tracks as the wounded, grounded Tisiphone howled, and then a great cheer rose up from the ranks as the revolutionaries fell upon the Envy legion with renewed enthusiasm and hotter hellfire.

The dying Megaera fixed her ruby eyes on Combeferre. She spoke, guttural and garbled, in the ancient tongue, the language of runes that he could read but not understand when it was uttered, used only by her and others like her, the Great Old Ones who had lived since time immemorial, who had seen Atlantis rise and fall.

He felt a twinge of regret that this knowledge would fade with Eve, with the remaining two Furies, with the sovereigns, but there was a new world waiting amidst the ghosts and ashes.

Sacrifice.

"Give my sincerest regards to Eurydice," he said, and the icicles climbed further, dug deeper. Megaera the Vengeful, daughter of night and pain, breathed her last.

He'd done it. He'd killed one of the Erinyes. The small part of him that was still a child whispered, _Limbo is too good for you._

_But I froze the Styx, _Combeferre told himself, waist-deep in ice. _They will never forget this. _It was perhaps too vain a thought, but he was Vainglory, after all. _I will live forever._

* * *

Joly heard one of the bunk beds creaking, and he looked up and saw a shape moving in the darkness.

"Ep?" he called.

"I can't sleep," came the grudging reply.

He went to sit beside her on the mattress, cautiously draping an arm around her shoulders. She drew up her knees and rested her head on them.

"When Enjolras came back, I wanted to hurt him. So much. Hurt him the way he hurt me," she said in a thick, rotten voice, because Éponine never did anything half-assed; for as long as Joly had known her, she'd crashed into rage, making no distinction between it and sorrow. "Every time I looked at him, I saw Azelma. And there was this part of me that hoped his revolution would fail, that he would die. A life for a life, isn't that so? It seemed only fitting." She buried her face deeper, shielding it with her arms. "I am not a good person."

"Ep…" Joly's grip tightened. "You loved them with all you could. You may not be a good person, but you're one of the best I know. Okay?"

She didn't respond, and the two of them sat in silence, just two kids holding each other all through the long night.

* * *

The Shrieking Castle was completely surrounded by a wall of insurmountable thorns. At Enjolras' command, fireballs were hurled at it, but the foliage refused to burn.

"Eve," Azazel hissed. "That bitch."

One of Lilith's dragons snapped at him. "Watch it," said Lady Air. "No one calls her a bitch but _me."_

A messenger imp arrived. "Megaera, Tisiphone, and the Nightmare Child are dead. Alecto has made herself scarce," it told Enjolras. "But the legions have regrouped. They're marching to the capitol. They will get here before the rest of our forces."

Azazel studied their ragtag army. "My Prince, we are never going to tear down this wall in time. We have to fall back."

"No," said Enjolras, his hand already on Excalibur's hilt. "We're already here. There is no point in going away."

"Live to fight another day, young one," Lilith murmured.

"I will live in freedom," Enjolras replied, his blue eyes ablaze, "or nothing at all. This is my stand. Will you take your place with me?"

Azazel and Lilith glanced at each other, and then, slowly, they nodded.

* * *

Courfeyrac peeped at them from the other bunk. "You guys can't sleep, either?"

"Yeah," said Joly. "Come join the party."

The other boy eagerly clambered out of his bed and sat beside Éponine. After mere seconds, Bossuet joined them, somewhat sheepishly, perching on the edge of the mattress and curling up at their feet. The bunk groaned under the combined weight of all four of them.

"We did the right thing, didn't we?" Bossuet wondered out loud. "I lost so many during the war- fellow soldiers. Men and women I befriended over the months. I don't want that to happen again. If the revolution is the only way to stop Dis from invading us- then I don't care if we get into trouble. Do you?"

The two other boys nodded assent, while Éponine remained as still as a statue.

"I still dream about my kids sometimes," said Courfeyrac. "Well, they weren't mine- but, in a way, they _were, _y'know? There was nothing I could do. I wasn't fast enough, back then. I couldn't fight. Twenty of them, bright eyes and scabbed knees. They all called me Mister Courf. All gone. The inferno swallowed them whole."

The front door slid open and Jehan came in, smelling of the smoke from his poetry club. He flicked on the nearest lamp, but the light wasn't enough to dispel the darkness; it only lessened it.

"I thought I'd check up before I went home," he told his fellow Templars. And then, with a sudden burst of exuberance, the kind that only tense situations could bring out in people, he charged at the bed and jumped on top of Bossuet, who grunted in pain.

The weight was too much. The bottom bunk's frame collapsed, and all five of them went crashing to the floor, yelling in surprise.

Laughing, Joly smacked Bossuet's arm. "Has your bad luck become contagious?"

"What's the matter, all out of Echinacea tea?" Bossuet quipped.

They were in shambles, a tangle of limbs and pillows and loose metal bolts, but no one made a move to get up. After what seemed like an eternity, Éponine began to chant under her breath. Her voice was almost inaudible, but Joly caught snatches of the words he himself had prayed just a while ago.

"Moonlight, hold my heart and keep it safe," she whispered, a hymn of shadow, a song of smoke, falling all around, falling into the void. "Protect the one who loves me. Moonlight, bring him home."

* * *

He had watched Azazel fall, and even then he had not wanted to retreat, determined to chase the only thing he could hold on to. But Combeferre had arrived with his troops and dragged him away from the capitol district, with the help of a drunk, clumsy Grantaire.

Enjolras had tried to resist, had struggled in their grasp, but Combeferre hissed, "You cannot let your men die this way. This futile blockade will _not_ be our last stand. Do you hear me, General? We will go down fighting, but it will not be here in the capitol, where they pick us off like flies."

And so they had retreated, and so now they were in the Valley of the Dead, that bleak and desolate region where all the lost souls went- mortals who had loved demons, mortals who had not died in peace.

There were only about three hundred Resistance fighters left. On the opposite end of the realm, the Untitled were cowering in the slums. Imps had been dispatched to beg for help, but Enjolras already knew, with a cold and gray certainty, that no help would come. The people had not stirred.

Beside him, Lilith flexed her fingers and grimaced when she could produce nothing more than brief sparks. "I'm all out, my Prince," she said. Not even the most powerful demons could sustain their hellfire if they were worn to the bone, and she had already done the work of an entire regiment.

"Rest," Enjolras told her, and then he made his way to Combeferre, shouldering past the shimmering human-shaped mists that wandered the valley in the shadow of the mountains. Pale-eyed phantoms, all of them, some blood-stained murder victims while some wore the hospital gowns they had died in.

"Where are Feuilly and Bahorel?" Enjolras asked.

Combeferre shrugged. "I sent messengers, but I have not heard back from the Waste Lands."

Enjolras nodded grimly, ignoring the hollow ache in his heart. "And Grantaire?"

"Passed out in one of the caves, drunk off his arse."

The line of Enjolras' mouth softened. "I would not have it any other way, truly."

Combeferre managed a short laugh. "Yeah. I suppose."

They looked at the remnants of their army, most slumped on the ground and tending one another's wounds, while all around them ghosts blurred and whispered and wept silvery tears.

"Do you think she's here?" Combeferre asked.

"Yes." The child had died in battle, after all. Caught in the crossfire.

"Do you think she'll come to you?"

"I hope not. She doesn't owe me any favors."

Combeferre fell silent. They stood side by side under a darkening sky, the air smelling like rain and asphodel.

"I told Éponine-" Enjolras' voice cracked. He cleared his throat and began again. "I once told her that when she died, I would come for her here. That I would find her and lead her back to the city, and petition Hades to give her Second Life." Second Life was granted only to human souls who had demons to speak for them. Second Life was forever.

It had been a good dream.

"What did she say?" Combeferre prodded.

Enjolras found himself smiling. It was strange that he could still smile, even now. "She told me I was an arrogant bastard for assuming she'd go to the underworld for me."

"That's our Ep," Combeferre said warmly.

An imp flew into their midst. "The Morningstar's forces have reclaimed the capitol," it said. "They should be here in half an hour, if not sooner. Watch the skies."

The next few minutes were spent in a flurry of activity. Enjolras and Combeferre went among the troops, handing out last-minute instructions and what words of encouragement they could offer. Finally, they placed themselves at the head of the straggly formation, bracing for the last stand.

When the first sign of wings loomed on the horizon, Combeferre suddenly blurted out, "General." It was a teasing nickname, but sometimes he used it when it was important.

Enjolras glanced at him, but his friend was staring straight on, refusing to meet his eyes. "What is it, Combeferre?"

"I think I saw her, on the last day of the Schism," Combeferre said, voice cool and solid, but a slight tremor in his hands. "Before you gave the order to detonate the street, I think I saw Azelma there. But I wanted- I wanted to win. I didn't know the Morningstar would proclaim surrender so soon afterwards. I thought we could still win, and I-" He faltered, and then soldiered on, like Combeferre always would. "I didn't warn you. I'm sorry."

Enjolras released the breath he'd been holding for years. "Okay." He clapped his second-in-command on the back as the roar of the approaching legions filled the world. "Okay."

* * *

_She realizes she loves him on the day of the typhoon, when the power goes out and high-speed gales blow in from the sea, whistling through New Advent, rattling the windows of the apartment on the corner of Requiem and Bone._

"_Good thing you didn't go home yet," she remarks as he sits on the couch and blows fire onto candle wicks._

"_Yes. Good thing I was… detained."_

_She grins as she slides herself into his lap, looping her arms around his neck. "I can detain you some more, if you want."_

_He smirks, his hands caressing the point where the material of her shorts met her bare thighs. "Well, your sister _is _taking a nap." He leans forward slightly, nudging her nose with his._

_Outside, the city is going to hell, lightning streaking across the clouds, debris smacking into window-glass. But here, in this apartment, the candlelight is soft and golden and he smells like linen and sandalwood. She tangles her fingers in his blond hair as his head dips lower to nuzzle her neck, his lips tracing her collarbone. She sighs contentedly, looks at the scene outside the windows, where the sky is black and electric-charged._

_His hand is already beginning to wander, slipping up her shirt, grazing her waist, the side of her breast. She's tense with anticipation, but, all of a sudden, the hand transfers to her back and he hugs her tight, as if reassuring himself that she's still there. It occurs to her with startling clarity that he's done that so many times, and maybe she hasn't been paying attention to what it means._

"_Hey," she says. She can't explain it, but she needs to see his face._

_He looks up. "Yes?" he murmurs, voice husky, blue eyes dark._

_And that's when she knows._

"_Fire of my blood," she teases, using those archaic terms of endearment that she sometimes makes fun of him for. "The air in my lungs." She brushes a lock of stray golden hair from his forehead, and her voice is still light-hearted, but her gaze is serious. "You. Always you."_

_He kisses her, and they smile against each other's lips._

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	12. Lost Hearts

**Notes: **I apologize for the long delay! I was having a difficult time figuring out how to write this chapter. Only three more to go, folks, and I hope to wrap it up by the end of the month. Jordan and Emma made two beautiful mixes for this fic which you can find at ( amerrybrandybuck . tumblr . c*m / post / 49374176287 / season-unending-fanmix-vol-i-a-collaboration ) and ( girlbehindthescrawledletters . tumblr . c*m / post / 49381980550 / season-unending-fanmix-vol-ii-vol-i-can-be ), and if you want to be updated, you can check my fic tag ( youarethesentinels . tumblr . c*m / tagged / fic:%20season%20unending ). Thank you, as always, for all the reviews, follows, and favorites! Feedback for this chapter would be very much appreciated :)

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

**Lost Hearts**

* * *

What do you think of in the middle of war?

Surely there are strategies to occupy the mind- offensive tactics and methods of defense. Surely you have to focus on the rhythm your body makes as you fire and dodge and fire again.

Surely you fight for your life and your friends and your cause.

Surely you would not think of her.

But here is something only soldiers know: when you're in the thick of it, the brain can at times switch to autopilot. Part of you watches the scene from afar, your every move- your every breath- imbued with memory. At times, you soak up the world you once knew, in preparation for all that is to come after it.

Flames engulfed Excalibur's blade. Enjolras lopped off a Greed demon's armored head, only to see Éponine through the smoke, shaking her hair loose from her sloppy ponytail. He rolled to the ground to dodge Acedia's arrows, and when he came back up she was singing loud and out-of-key into her hairbrush as she waltzed around the bathroom. His men screamed all around him, but he heard only her soft whispers in the night, when moonlight and blankets wrapped around their bodies and she told him stories from her childhood. _I used to have braces, _she had said once, and he'd been unable to suppress a grin at the mental image. The smell of battle clogged his nostrils- ichor, rust, ash, and musk- but it wasn't strong enough to drown out her amber perfume.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _Enjolras thought, with each burst of hellfire, with each swing of his sword. _This is the only way I can make it up to you. _He knew, deep in his heart, that they were on the verge of defeat, but they had killed the Nightmare Child, two of the Furies, and almost all of Wrath- now New Advent had a fighting chance, should Lucifer decide to push through with the invasion. _My life for yours, Éponine._

* * *

_He realizes he loves her on an ordinary day, when the sun is high and they're all squinting at one another as they sip lattes on the street, clustered around the lamppost that they had unofficially touted as theirs. His hand rests on the small of her back as usual, and the cotton material of her summer dress glides beneath his touch as she laughs at one of Bahorel's crude jokes._

_Joly knocks back the rest of his coffee, because this is months before the switch to herbal tea. "Well, you lazy fools, I'm off to work."_

"_But it's Sunday!" Feuilly exclaims._

"_No rest for the wicked," Joly quips, and he walks away to a round of jeers, lifting his hand in unperturbed farewell._

"_Bye, Joly," Éponine calls after him, and the sound of her raspy voice makes Enjolras look at her. She's almost blurry in the sunlight, all golden skin and gold-flecked eyes, and she's not even doing much of anything, really- just smiling, soft mouth and dimples, a smear of latte foam on her upper lip. Before he can stop himself, he bends down and kisses the froth away._

_She jumps in surprise, and their teeth clank together. "Fuck!" they both yell, moving away from each other and clapping a hand over their aching mouths. _

"_Did that really just happen?" Bahorel asks. "Because I can't believe it."_

_Grantaire raises an eyebrow. "That Enjolras actually showed affection in public, or that he screwed it up? I can believe the latter, but not the former."_

"_The first is causative to the second, though," Combeferre points out._

_Éponine shakes her head in exasperation, and Enjolras watches her do that with sun seeping through his lashes and a hiss of breath cold against his ringing teeth._

_And that's when he knows._

* * *

"Did you truly have to leech him, sister?" There was a trace of admonishment in Marius' tone as they peeled away from the hospital in Musichetta's car, leaving an unconscious Montparnasse behind on the front steps. "Angel burn so soon after demonic possession- that can't be good for his mental health."

"He'll survive," Musichetta said airily. "How else were we going to get the information?" She smirked. "Say what you like about humans, but they're pretty good kissers."

Cosette's ears pricked up with interest, but Marius continued lecturing in his usual bumbling manner. "I… I just don't believe it was particularly seemly for the Metatron to walk into a bar and canoodle with a criminal, that's all."

"Then, my brother, it's a good thing I've never been concerned with being _seemly," _Musichetta retorted, with a hint of caustic warning.

Cosette quickly intervened. "So was our hunch correct? Is the operation at the docks?"

"Yes," said Musichetta, "and I know just which warehouse."

As she drove into the black night, she rifled through the memories she had copied from Montparnasse when her mouth seared his with the heat of angel burn. There had been a figure hidden in the shadows, conversing with the oily-haired Thénardier. There had been boxes of communion wafers being loaded into trucks, behind a seemingly abandoned warehouse at the edge of the harbor.

But leeching wasn't a precise science. Other irrelevant memories had found their way into Musichetta's mind as well, other snippets of a murky past.

* * *

_Fantine Tholomyes shakily points a gun at Montparnasse in the corridor of a huge mansion, her chestnut hair still long, her lips pale. "Out of my way."_

"_You can't possibly be trying to escape your husband now," he drawls. "There's a war on."_

"_What better time?" she retorts, trembling, brown eyes wild. "Get out of my way or I'll shoot you. I swear I will."_

_He steps aside. "You can't run forever, Fantine. Before this is over, Tholomyes _will _find you."_

"_No," she corrects as she brushes past him. "_I _will find him. Before this ends, or after it. He will dream of me, and I will come."_

* * *

_And back, further back, a little girl who looks like Éponine crying in the garden, her arms covered in bruises. Montparnasse approaches her quietly, grimacing to himself at how unsubtle Thénardier's handiwork is. Azelma is not Éponine, although they have the same eyes and the same hair, although to look at the former is to remember the latter in the summer days of childhood. Azelma is much easier to break, and Montparnasse, who never fears anything, fears that one day Thénardier will truly kill her._

_After looking around to make sure there are no eyes peeping through the windows of the mansion, he deliberately snaps a twig under his boot, and Azelma looks up. He motions her over to where he's standing, in the security cameras' blind spot. Once she's near enough, he presses a slip of paper into her hands._

_It's her sister's address._

_The child studies it, and then looks up at him. "Why?" she asks, a skeptical edge to her tone, and he has to suppress a smirk because maybe she's more Éponine than he thought, after all._

"_Why not?" he counters. He is Montparnasse, and he needs no reasons. "Do with it as you please, my little dame. And don't tell anyone."_

* * *

_Forward, forward once more. And Musichetta, who is merely looking in from beyond the veil, can't help a flutter of surprise when she sees Enjolras and Éponine at the station. This is the time before the Schism, when the bullet train still runs. Montparnasse is a shadow in the crowd, unnoticed but near enough to hear their conversation as they stand on the platform._

"_I really hate commuting," Éponine gripes. "Just you wait, I'll save up enough to buy my own car one day."_

_The demon raises an eyebrow. "I shudder at the prospect of you behind the wheel."_

_The train rolls to a stop and its doors slide open, releasing an hiss of hot steam and cold air and people. Enjolras puts a hand on Éponine's shoulder. "I shall see you later," he says, fiddling with the ends of her dark hair for a moment, before walking away._

_But her fingers have somehow tangled themselves into his scarf. She tugs, and he gives a short, startled laugh as he is pulled back into her orbit. He turns, and their lips meet in a quick, chaste kiss._

"_See you," she says, letting him go and stepping through the open doors. This time, he stays on the platform, his hands in his coat pockets, and watches the train speed away until it is out of sight, a half-smile lingering on the corners of his mouth._

* * *

_I understand now, _Musichetta thought as the green-lit docks loomed in the distance. _Not all of it, but enough. _It finally made sense, the expression that sometimes stole over Éponine's face when she was in the demon's presence. The look in Enjolras' eyes every time she walked away.

* * *

He was alone, cut off from the rest of his troops, cornered at the edge of a narrow cliff by the Morningstar's forces. Ichor dripped from a gash in his side, and he fell to his knees, burnt out and weakened, the blade called Excalibur slipping from his grasp, a barrage of weapons and sly grins aimed at him.

_We failed to break the Throne, _Enjolras thought, breathing heavily under the blood-red sky. _Limbo. I go now to Limbo. _It was a fate crueler than death, precisely because it wasn't death. Eternal waking. Eternal remembrance, in the nothingness of the void.

He smelled rain and asphodel. He blinked, and there she was, dwarfed by the demons gathered behind her who were waiting to strike the final blow, standing barefoot in front of him in her white dress, her face and her arms shrouded in burns, looking exactly the way she had when she died, looking at him with large, mournful eyes.

"Child," Enjolras murmured, "are you still very angry with me?"

She didn't respond, but, instead, trotted over to where he knelt, and held out her hand.

He took it. "Stay with me," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "It's more than I deserve, but stay with me, anyway. Until the end."

Azelma nodded, and Enjolras slowly got to his feet. He squared his shoulders, waiting for the hellfire and the blades, and then he looked up.

One of the Greed generals sneered. "What do you search for in the skies, my fallen Prince?"

_Nothing you would understand, _Enjolras thought, his eyes on the swirl of crimson clouds, on the fiery sun. He thought of New Advent, of the curtains drifting in the breeze in the apartment on the corner of Requiem and Bone. _World above me, world that became my home. _He could almost taste coffee on his tongue, but that was probably just the tang of ichor and sweat.

There was a ripple at the back of the line. Grantaire was staggering forward, pushing his way through the soldiers, his wine-bright eyes on Enjolras. Their gazes met.

"Do you know," slurred the Marquis of Acedia, "what the oracle told me?"

Enjolras shook his head.

"In my dreams you were lions," Grantaire continued. "You, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Bahorel. You roared in the night, and I got out of bed, knowing I had no choice but to follow you into the wilderness. Orpheus said that I would have to learn how to be brave, before the end. He said…" And here his curious half-smile faltered, here his breathing hitched. "He said that to love another person is to see the face of the Father."

"The Father we never knew," Enjolras reminded him.

"I will know him, soon enough," Grantaire replied softly. He looked down at Azelma and passed an elegant hand over her ragged, ash-smeared hair. "Hey there, my dark-eyed beauty," he crooned, and she gave him a small smile.

Enjolras stood at the edge of the cliff with his friend and his ghost by his side. He looked up once more.

* * *

"Ep." Courfeyrac tugged at her arm as she leaned her head against the windows. "Ep, you need to get some sleep."

"No," she rasped. She was staring out the glass, but her gaze was fixed on the street below.

* * *

Before the generals could give the command to fire, a lazy yawn swept into the silence. The sound chilled Enjolras' bones, but not as much as did the demon who sauntered into their midst. Dressed in thin, leaf-green robes, she was tall and willowy, with skin the color of milk and hair so fine and pale it resembled dew-stained straw. She looked like she had just woken up.

"You have new orders," Aergia, the goddess of indolence, the mistress of sleep, told the legions. "Apparently, this one-" She gestured languidly at Enjolras- "is to be taken alive and guillotined tomorrow. The little man on the throne wants to make an example of him and that Vainglory duke."

_Combeferre is alive, _Enjolras thought, feeling a wave of relief despite the circumstances. His grip on Azelma's hand tightened.

Aergia's gaze drifted to Grantaire, as if he were an afterthought. "Well, my child," she sighed, "I am certainly disappointed in you."

"I did not think you thought of me enough to be disappointed," Grantaire confessed with a semblance of his usual rakish grin.

"And I did not think you thought at all," Aergia countered, strolling over to him. "And I was right." In one swift movement, she conjured a dagger made of hellfire and plunged it deep into his chest.

A strangled cry tore itself from Enjolras' throat as Grantaire sputtered, his dark ichor dripping down Aergia's pale wrist. She looked him in the eye, still retaining the impassive, slightly bored expression on her face. "Have fun in Limbo," she drawled, vanishing the blade. "Or, you know, don't."

She walked away, and Enjolras could only stare dumbly at the sight of Grantaire falling to the ground. He himself was seized by the soldiers, separated from Azelma. They led him away, but still he looked back with mounting desperation, to see the ghost girl kneeling at the dying demon's side, her hands in her lap, her head bowed, their two huddled forms silhouetted at the edge of the cliff, against the red sky.

* * *

Jehan gently pushed a cup of hot tea into Éponine's hands. "You're shivering," he remarked.

"Somebody just walked over my grave," she said.

* * *

Feuilly opened his eyes with a groan. His first thought was that he was in Limbo, because the world was covered in darkness- but, of course, there would have been no darkness if he really were there. Limbo wasn't black or bright; it was just… nothing.

He tried to pull himself into a sitting position, but that took strength he no longer had. The back of his head hit solid rock, and he cried out. The pain brought with it a startling clarity, made him register the dim outline of withered trees and the smell of dust, made him realize that it couldn't possibly be night time, not yet- there was only once place in Dis where the dark spread quicker. He was still in the Waste Lands, and Bahorel was dead. Bahorel had dropped grenades into the Nightmare Child's open mouth, and the subsequent explosion had filled the world and knocked Feuilly off his feet, riddling his body with wounds from the holy water. Trust Bahorel to go out with a bang and leave scars in his aftermath.

_But have we won? _Feuilly wondered. He strained his ears for the sound of war, and heard only a deafening, eerie silence. He didn't know how long he lay there, disoriented and drained, but after a while he saw a figure approaching him, hellfire licking at the folds of her cloak, casting a burnished gloss over her golden armor. His heart dropped, because the fact that she was alive meant only one thing.

"I could have told you that your revolution was doomed from the start, little gardener," Ishtar purred. "Your friends are in the Tartarus Pits, awaiting execution in the morning. And as for you…"

"Send me to Limbo and be done with it," Feuilly grunted.

"You know, I'd rather not," mused the Courtesan. There was a predatory gleam in her silver eyes. "The void is overrated. There are worse gifts." She crouched down beside him, and pressed burning fingers to his face. "To you, child who is not my child," she murmured over his screams, "boy without a legion- to you I give exile."

Feuilly felt the scar blossom on his cheek as tears of pain dripped from his eyes. It seared through him, every line and every curve- a mark in the shape of a thorn tree.

* * *

Éponine was running on empty. The sky had considerably lightened; her mind was hazy with static and different kinds of gray. But she was still horribly wide awake, in that kind of state where sounds are sharper and things are more solid when you look straight at them, but start swimming- drifting- away from you when you turn your head. The world was strange; she found herself slipping into trances, the voices of the other Templars booming in her ears but their bodies so far off she wouldn't have been surprised if they were actually realms away.

"She still hasn't slept?" someone who sounded like Joly muttered, and someone who looked like Bossuet shook his head.

"I'm not tired," Éponine insisted. In fact, she was brimming with nervous energy. She wanted to do… something. Anything. She wanted to exorcise a demon, to run screaming through the streets, to rob a bank- anything. She wanted movement to keep the mind at bay.

There was pounding. At first, she thought it was her heartbeat, but then Courfeyrac rushed to the door. He fit an eye into the peephole and made a short exclamation of surprise before hurriedly letting the newcomer in.

Éponine leapt to her feet the moment she saw Feuilly stagger through the doorway and throw himself on the floor of the base. "What happened?" she asked, her stomach suddenly hollow.

Feuilly raised his head to look up at her, and when he did, she clapped a hand to her mouth. The mark of exile covered his entire right cheek in dark, angry strokes.

"Ep," Feuilly whimpered. "I did all I could to come here- to force my path here-"

_You were my friend once, _was what he meant. _Be my friend again. Because my land has spat me out, and I can never return, and I have nowhere else to go. _Exile meant stripped of all your hellfire, all your power. Exile meant that Dis had renounced you. Ichor pooled through the back of his shirt, where his wings used to be.

"Joly," Éponine choked out, and, without further prompting, the boy went to retrieve the first-aid kit.

"We lost," Feuilly murmured, his face ashen. "We lost, Ep-"

She fell to her knees beside him. "Where's Enjolras?" she managed to ask through the knot in her throat.

"Tartarus. Ishtar said he and the others would be executed tomorrow."

Alive.

He was alive.

Éponine's body sagged deeper, flattened itself onto the tiles. She laid her head beside Feuilly's as relief crashed over her- and, with it, all the exhaustion of the past several hours.

Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Bossuet hurried over to her in concern, but she waved them off. Her vision was already darkening.

"Wake me up in an hour," she muttered to the boys. "An _hour, _got it? Not a second longer. Don't you _dare."_

She waited for them to nod, and then she closed her eyes.

When Courfeyrac shook her awake, she found they had moved her into one of the bunk beds. She stared up at the ceiling. "We have to get them back," she said.

"A- are you serious?" sputtered Bossuet. "We can't go to Dis!"

The plan was already forming in Éponine's mind. "Yes, we can."

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	13. Tempest

**Notes: **Wow, I am so sorry this took so long. On the bright side, two more chapters to go! Thank you as always for your support, dear readers! And I know I've proven myself to suck at keeping deadlines, but if this fic isn't finished before August, feel free to yell at me. If you want to be updated on my progress, as well as to see all the beautiful things Tumblr people have been making for this story, please do check out ( youarethesentinels . tumblr . c*m / tagged / fic:%20season%20unending ). Hope you all like this installment! And remember that reviews motivate me to work faster! ;)

* * *

_This chapter is for Emma (girlbehindthescrawledletters), who at this point in time must be really tired of my emotional breakdowns in her inbox! I love you, bb! Also, most of the angst in this update is thanks to her soul-destroying meta, so if you must rage, rage at her, not at me._

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Tempest**

* * *

"We're a bit crowded, yes?" Marius whispered into Cosette's ear as the two of them and Musichetta wedged their bodies between the rafters of the warehouse.

"Quiet!" the other angels shushed him.

According to the information they'd gotten from the leech, there was going to be a meeting between the Five Families that would take place at any moment. The Metatron agents waited with bated breath, eyes glued to the doors.

They filtered in one by one, men and women dressed in various shades of black and white and gray- the rulers and minions of New Advent's criminal underworld. As the various bodyguards melted into the walls, appearing both unobtrusive and threatening all at once, the five bosses regarded one another warily.

"Where's your little bloodhound, Thénardier?" asked Fantine.

"Oh, Madame, you know Montparnasse as well as I do," said Thénardier with an ingratiating grin. "He rarely comes when called."

Jean Valjean frowned. "I don't like it. He was _supposed _to be here. We should reschedule."

"I did not come out at the crack of dawn for nothing!" protested Champmathieu. "Tell us why we're here, Fantine."

Fantine pursed her scarlet lips. She and Valjean shared a long, indecipherable look, an unspoken conversation going on between them, before she finally announced to the room at large, "Four years ago, when I took control-"

"You mean when you killed your husband," sneered Bamatabois.

Fantine's brown eyes flashed. She marched over to Bamatabois and socked him on the jaw. As he reeled back with a curse, his bodyguards shifted uneasily, but they were soon quelled by Valjean's warning glare.

"The next time you interrupt me will be the last time," Fantine said in a voice like ice, standing tall over the cowering man. She turned back to the others and continued speaking. "The war decimated our major businesses- both legal and illegal. We agreed that the best way to recoup our losses would be to get into the drug trade. If you will all recall, I stressed that this would only be a temporary solution, and we would stop once we got back on our feet. Gentlemen, that time has now come. You will make good on the vow you swore to me four years ago. We will be receiving our final shipment of vestal light today. After that, no more."

Thénardier, Champmathieu, and Bamatabois started talking all at once. Fantine's delicate features remained impassive as she weathered out their loud protests.

Up in the rafters, the Metatron exchanged glances. It was taking all of Marius' self-control to refrain from arresting the humans below. They were outside jurisdiction; that meant freedom to do whatever they wished, but it also meant that no help would come from the Silver City if they were discovered.

"Madame," wheedled Thénardier, "surely this is a hasty decision- I must beg you to reconsider-"

"You promised, Thénardier," Valjean reminded him implacably. "You swore on your daughter's grave that you would stop once Fantine gave the word."

"But I-"

One of the bodyguards fell to the floor, screaming. Fantine grimaced. "Took them long enough," she said.

The possessed man raised his head with a twisted, unnatural smirk that seemed too large for the mouth it was on. "Greetings from the world below," he crooned in a demon's guttural voice. "Greetings from my liege, Mammon, King of Greed, Lord of the Cornucopia, Master of the Fourth Circle, Wolf-son, and Babylon Triumphant-"

"Shut up, Dagon," ordered Fantine. "Leave my poor bodyguard alone and hand over the shipment."

Smoke erupted all around the possessed man's body, and a pale demon with long black hair emerged. "You humans," sniffed Dagon, "always so impatient. No respect for rituals. _Anyway, _I apologize for running late, but there was a certain situation underground that had to be resolved-" Suddenly, he stilled.

_Oh, no, _Marius thought, as beside him Cosette stifled a sharp intake of breath.

Dagon looked around, his milky eyes narrowing. "What's this?" he snarled, hellfire simmering in his clenched fists. "Have you set me up?"

"What are you talking about?" asked Fantine.

"_Angels!" _Dagon roared, shooting a blast of flame at the rafters.

The three Metatron agents scrambled away from their hiding spot a mere heartbeat before it was incinerated, opening the warehouse's roof up to the sky.

"Time to go!" Musichetta barked, her wings unfolding as below them the bodyguards pulled out their guns and bullets rent the air.

Cosette grabbed a shocked Marius by his collar and dragged him through the hole in the roof, followed by Musichetta. They soared to the heavens, leaving behind a burning building and a swirl of confusion.

"What about your car, sister?" Marius panted to Musichetta as they fled.

"Leave it," she replied. "Let's go back to the Templar base."

Right before they disappeared into the cloud cover, their sharp ears picked up the wail of police sirens coming from the city below.

* * *

"What the hell happened?" Courfeyrac demanded as soon as the three angels entered headquarters, taking in their ruffled appearance and the scorch-marks on Marius' sleeve.

Marius opened his mouth to explain, but Musichetta cut him off. "Confidential," she snapped. She raised an eyebrow at Feuilly. Back in the warehouse, Dagon had implied that the rebellion had been subdued, so she was a little startled to see Feuilly here. She belatedly noticed the scar on his cheek. "The mark of exile, huh? That was surprisingly lenient of them."

"Bahorel's dead," Joly told her shortly. "The others are in Tartarus. They will be executed tomorrow."

Cosette's gaze flew to Éponine. "I am very sorry."

The other girl shrugged. "It's okay. We're going to rescue them."

If a pin had dropped on the floor at that precise moment, the clatter would have been deafening. The Metatron agents stared at Éponine with various expressions on their faces; Musichetta looked skeptical, Cosette was measuring, while Marius simply looked bewildered.

Finally, he said, "Er, how shall you get to Dis? The portals are closed."

Éponine smiled, all teeth. "That's where you guys come in."

"No," Musichetta immediately replied. "We will not open the gates for you. Aside from breaking the rules, we would also be sending you to your doom." Her eyes flickered to Joly and Bossuet. "You can't ask us to do that."

"We can handle ourselves," argued Éponine. "It's only going to be me, Joly, and Jehan, and we're pretty sneaky when we want to be."

Before Éponine could even get to the end of her sentence, Marius was already shaking his head. Musichetta folded her arms across her chest. "We're not doing it, Ep," she snapped.

Cosette spoke up. "I'll do it," she said softly.

* * *

The nearest portal was Fengdu in Chinatown, but it was early morning in New Advent. Rush hour. There would be too many people up and about. Along this same logic, the other gates within city limits were ruled out, leaving only the Necromanteion off the coast.

Feuilly, the Templars, and the Metatron agents went down to the docks, steering clear of the police lines surrounding the warehouse where the heads of the Five Families had met. Courfeyrac opened his mouth to ask more questions, but was silenced by Musichetta's sharp glare.

They found a fisherman by the water, packing up his nets.

"Hey," Joly said to him, "how much to take us across?"

The fisherman stilled. "Across to where?"

"The Temple of the Dead."

A look of deep suspicion settled on the fisherman's sunburned features. "You're not cultists, are you? Because I don't aim to be a human sacrifice to summon some demon or whatever."

"We just want to see the sights," Courfeyrac assured him. "We'll pay you plenty for your trouble."

"Hmm, I don't know…"

Time was running out. Éponine stepped forward, losing what little patience she'd had in the first place. "Look here," she snarled, "either you ferry us across and get paid for it, or we _take _your boat from you and give you nothing in return."

The fisherman bristled. "I don't like being threatened, Miss-"

"Thénardier," Éponine said. "That's Miss Thénardier to you."

The others watched curiously as the man paled beneath his tan. Every inch of Fiddler's Green was under the control of the crime syndicates; the fishing industry knew full well to whom they owed their livelihood.

The man was obviously intimidated, but he rallied in the end. "A hundred indulgences and no less."

"You're joking," Bossuet blurted out.

"You can't steal my boat, anyway," the fisherman bravely replied. "The cops are right over there. All I have to do is scream and they'll come running. They just discovered an entire warehouse full of communion wafers. In the mood they're in, let me tell you, they'll arrest _anyone. _Even a Thénardier." He lifted his chin. "So, it's a hundred indulgences, or no deal."

"Why, you little-" Courfeyrac growled, but was stopped by Jehan's hand on his arm.

"All right," said Jehan. "A hundred indulgences, and you take us back and forth."

The fisherman nodded. Courfeyrac grumpily reached into the folds of his coat for his wallet and then counted out the money. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, "this was supposed to be for the new coffeemaker."

* * *

And then the slow and drifting journey over the Sea of Ghosts, the tepid blue water lapping at the sides of the wooden boat as the fisherman steered it in the direction of the little island on which stood the ruins of the Necromanteion. Everyone was too tense to talk, although Marius kept sneaking glances at Cosette as if he were bursting with words unsaid.

The fisherman broke the silence, frowning at the lumbering motion of his boat. "Seems to me we're a bit too heavy," he announced. "Your pockets filled with bricks or something?"

Éponine, Joly, and Jehan, who had their respective weapons strapped to their bodies underneath their cloaks, glanced at one another. "Nope," they chorused innocently.

It felt like an eternity before the boat finally ground against the shallows. The sun had risen high overhead, shedding golden light into their eyes. As the passengers clambered onto the shore, water lapping at the edges of their shoes, the fisherman gave a startled cry, pointing a shaking finger at their feet.

The angels' shadows were spread out on the white sand, the silhouettes of their folded wings as clear as day.

Jehan smiled at the fisherman. "No one will ever believe you," he said gently.

Bossuet perked up. "Does this mean we get a discount?"

Feuilly elected to stay with the boat, just in case the fisherman lost his nerve and took off. He thrust a folded, hastily-drawn map of the Tartarus Pits into Éponine's hand.

"May your stars align," he said solemnly, the archaic wish for good luck, although he no longer had the power to wish luck on anyone.

Éponine touched his scarred cheek lightly, with uncharacteristic tenderness, tracing the spiky branches of the thorn tree on his skin. "If I don't come back, stick with the Order, okay? They'll help you out."

"Ep." Feuilly grabbed her wrist, his eyes blazing. "You're coming back, all right? If I am to stand here and watch you walk into that temple, I have to _believe _that you're coming back."

She nodded mutely, and he let her go. As she marched up to the ruins with the others, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him standing on the shoreline. The fisherman and his boat were a few steps away from him, but Feuilly looked incredibly lonely.

The crumbling stone walls of the Necromanteion rose sharply from the tangled weeds and dry sand. The Atlanteans had built this place, had etched prayers on its walls in their indecipherable runic script. Musichetta ran her palm over the carvings at the entrance.

"Can you read it?" Joly asked her.

"I had top marks in Ancient Languages," Musichetta said wryly. "I'm out of practice, but this part goes, _Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."_

Bossuet blinked. "Well, that's… motivational."

"They weren't a particularly cheerful people, the Atlanteans," Marius remarked. "Look at this one. _For I saw the Sibyl with my own eyes, hanging in a jar, and when the boys said to her: Sibyl, what do you desire? she said…"_

"_I want to die," _Cosette finished for him, and he turned to her.

"Please don't do this," he whispered. "If our superiors found out…"

"I'll shoulder all the blame," said Cosette. "It will be on record that you and Musichetta tried to stop me."

"It's not us I'm worried about," Marius protested. "It's you. I'm worried about _you." _His eyes sought hers in a plea for her to understand.

Cosette smiled at him. "I'm stronger than I look."

"I know, but-"

Before Marius could finish his sentence, Cosette moved away, deeper into the shadows of the temple. The daylight that trickled in through the entrance was enough to illuminate the bare altar in the center of the room.

Courfeyrac threw his arms around Jehan in a tight hug. "Be careful," he murmured in the other boy's ear.

Jehan squeezed him back, for once unable to find the words.

Meanwhile, Joly and Bossuet were regarding each other somberly. "You know, I've never done anything without you," said Joly in a tone of wonder. "This'll be the first time."

"You'll be fine." Bossuet cracked a weak grin. "Without me and my bad luck, you'll be okay. No inconvenient puddles to slip on, no stray breeze throwing off your aim."

"Back when we were being assigned our permanent partners, I begged to be paired up with you," Joly admitted with a trace of shyness. "You're my best friend. For you, I'd take all the bad luck in the world."

They awkwardly shook hands, both of them a little red in the face.

Marius drew Éponine aside. "Don't take too long down there," he told her. "If you can't find them within the hour, go back, okay? Cosette will keep the portal open for as long as she can, but you have to hurry."

Éponine nodded, looking into his green eyes. Marius was here for her when, unlike Joly and Jehan, she didn't have anyone to say goodbye to. He was always there for her, she realized. In her agitated state, his presence filled the world like light.

Cosette stood at the altar. Her hand lashed out, drawing patterns in the air over the stone as her entire body became suffused with a pale diamond glow, her eyes flashing white-gold. _"Unseal," _she commanded, in the many voices of the Metatron. _"I open the gate, by fire and fleet and candlelight. I turn the key, by shadows and feathers and silence." _Gleaming lines streamed from her fingers, forming an elaborate archway, and she began to chant in a different language as it gradually took shape.

"What's she saying?" Éponine whispered to Marius.

"Something only angels know," he replied. "Words that have been lost in time. The song of Orpheus."

Cosette traced the last line of the archway. There was a brilliant flash of light, and then the altar was gone, replaced by the open portal, hot and shimmering and jewel-toned in the Temple of the Dead. Éponine grabbed Jehan's and Joly's hands, her heart racing.

"They're not really your friends." Éponine's gaze was on the portal, but she was speaking to Jehan. "You don't have to do this."

She felt rather than saw the other boy's shrug. "I admire them for what they tried to do. And I know they are important to you and Joly," said Jehan. "You burn, I burn."

Cosette stepped aside to let them pass, her eyes still blazing with the power of the Metatron. _"Godspeed," _she said.

Éponine, Joly, and Jehan took a deep, collective breath, and then they moved forward, walking into the portal's light, still holding hands as they made the descent.

* * *

Back when she lived in the darkness of the Five Families, stealth had come naturally to Éponine. But she'd fallen out of the habit after four years of fighting with a weapon as loud and bulky as a gunblade.

_Think of it like being onstage, _she counseled herself as she, Joly, and Jehan insinuated their way through the midnight gloom of the Suicide Woods. _Walk like you're in stilettos. Every step deliberate, every movement measuring. You are the Shadow that no one can ever catch._

Time was of the essence. They'd draped their cloaks over the portal that had opened up in the trunk of a gnarled oak tree, to hide its glow, even though no one came to the Woods anyway, according to Feuilly. However, there was still a slight chance that some demon would stumble across the portal and raise the alarm.

They broke through the line of trees and halted at the sight of the red dome that curved over the soil like one half of an exposed ribcage in the silver moonlight. This structure marked the main entrance to the dungeons of Tartarus.

There were other ways in. All around the dome, smoke hissed from exhaust vents dug deep into the earth. Éponine perused the map Feuilly had drawn, and pointed to the vent that led nearest to the first floor of cells.

From their hiding place amidst the trees, the Templars scanned the perimeter. When they had ascertained it was all clear, they broke into a run, alternating patches of moonlight and darkness rippling over their bodies.

There was a flutter of wings as two ravens took flight from a nearby branch. Jehan brought them down in quick succession, arrows slicing through the air.

_Kill all the ravens you see, _Feuilly had told them. _Those birds report directly to Eve._

Once they reached the vent, Éponine crouched down and got to work, jimmying the metal grate loose with a variety of lock-picks and screwdrivers. She tossed the grate to the side, and a blast of warm smoke hit her directly in the face. She cursed under her breath, and she, Joly, and Jehan slid down the opening one by one, the padded soles of their boots hitting the floor with soft thuds.

The dungeons of the Tartarus Pits roared with the kind of primordial darkness that seemed only to be found deep underground, conquering the scant glow of the flickering torches spaced few and far between. They kept close to the walls, sneaking past cells housing silent and dull-eyed demons, ducking out of sight of the griffin patrols. Occasionally, a prisoner would scream, a high-pitched, anguished sound that rent the air and chilled the bone.

Aside from the torches, the smoke was also coming from a crater of boiling red-gold magma at the base of Tartarus, around which the spiraling dungeon levels curled like treacherous petals. Without the benefit of wings, one wrong step could send you plunging headfirst into the burning pit. Further down they went, in single file, cautiously navigating the jagged ledges, crawling past each cell when the prisoner's gaze was directed elsewhere. It was slow and tedious work, and by the time they were five floors down, the heat from the crater was an almost visible thing, shimmering in waves around them.

Finally, Éponine peered into the next cell she came to and saw, through a haze of sweat, a familiar blur of blond hair. She held out an arm, signaling the Templars behind her to stop, and then glanced around furtively for any sign of the griffin patrols.

When she found none, she pried a loose shard of bone from the floor and chucked it through the bars, hitting Enjolras directly on the head.

He whirled around angrily, his blue eyes widening once he saw her. Before she could even blink, he had unfolded himself from the wall and wrapped his fingers around the bars with lightning speed, his face mere centimeters away from hers, his ragged breath ghosting over her cheeks. She pressed a finger to her lips in the universal gesture for silence, and he nodded, looking furious, a muscle ticking along his jaw.

_Why are you mad? _Éponine wondered sourly as she picked the lock under Enjolras' narrowed gaze. Call her crazy, but she'd expected at least a _little _gratitude for coming to rescue him. Not this ugly scowl, not this clenching and unclenching of fists like he was restraining himself from grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a good shake.

The lock was an intricate contraption, but Éponine had learned from the best, from criminals who broke into high-security bank vaults for practice. In her mind, she could picture Montparnasse flashing that knowing smirk of his.

_Once a Thénardier, always a Thénardier._

Jehan poked Éponine's back in warning, and they flattened themselves into the wall as a griffin dove past them, shrieking orders to its colleagues on the levels below. Éponine waited until the guard had come back up and disappeared, before attacking the lock on Enjolras' cell with renewed urgency.

"Leave it," Enjolras said in a tight, low voice. "Leave it and just go."

Éponine raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. "What do you think I came down here for?"

"_Stop it!" _Joly and Jehan hissed in tandem, with the former adding, "You two can fight later, okay? Right now, let's just concentrate on getting everyone out alive."

After a series of calculated jiggles and clicks, the lock-pick hit the right spot, and the door swung open.

"Where are the others?" Éponine demanded without preamble.

"Combeferre's in the next cell," said Enjolras.

"And Grantaire?"

The look in Enjolras' eyes was answer enough. Éponine swallowed. _Later. _She would mourn Grantaire and Bahorel later. Right now, she needed to focus on saving who she had left.

Joly and Jehan hurried past her, to Combeferre's cell. Éponine turned away from Enjolras, but before she could follow the other Templars, elegant hands clamped on her waist and brought her crashing into a warm, solid chest.

Enjolras embraced Éponine from behind, his arms wrapping tightly around her. He buried his face in her hair, and he was still, so still, although she could feel his tears trickling down her nape.

Her gaze remained fixed on the blazing crater beneath her feet, but she reached up a shaky, tentative hand to settle on the crook of his elbow. In response, his chin dug into the point where her neck met her shoulder, and it was all so achingly _the same, _and she almost couldn't believe it, that he was holding her again after all this time, in this place of fire and rock and shifting mists.

Éponine leaned into Enjolras' touch and he nuzzled her neck greedily, his lips forming unintelligible words against her skin, their chapped texture mingling with the wetness dripping from his long lashes.

_Why are you crying? _Éponine wanted to ask him. _I'm here, I'm here…_

They broke apart at the sound of footsteps, although he kept a hand on the small of her back, like he had always done in the time before. The faces of Joly, Jehan, and Combeferre emerged from the gloom.

Without uttering a single word, all five of them inched their way back up to the level beneath the open vent. Enjolras scooped Éponine into his arms and flew through the hole. The fresh air was a blessed relief from the steam of Tartarus. Once he set her back on her feet, she inhaled deeply, savoring the coolness in her lungs.

Combeferre flew Jehan up first, and then Joly. Once everybody was accounted for, they rushed into the Suicide Woods. They were halfway to the portal when they heard the griffins screaming.

"Holy crap," Joly muttered.

"Run," Jehan wheezed. "Just… _run!"_

Fallen leaves crackled and dead voices whispered all around them, the trees stirring uneasily under the moonlight. The night came alive with the beating of angry wings, and it wasn't long before a dark figure dropped down from the overhanging branches, tackling Jehan to the ground.

Joly drew his dagger, but Jehan managed to wrestle an arrow from his quiver and plunge it into the assailant's neck as he got back to his feet. They stared at the demon writhing on the ground, taking in the black garb and the shrouded mask.

"Envy," said Combeferre.

They scrambled forward once more, branches scratching at their exposed faces, until the oak tree unfurled into sight. One of the cloaks had slipped, allowing a sliver of the portal's light to penetrate the gloom.

Before they could reach it, however, the undergrowth behind them rustled, and several shadowy blades came whizzing through the air.

Éponine ducked, her hand closing around Dark Sister's hilt, but before she could draw her weapon, Enjolras was dragging her to the oak tree, using his free hand to shoot blasts of hellfire at Nemesis' invisible legion.

Joly reached the trunk first, whipping off the cloaks. He grabbed Combeferre by his collar.

"Wait," protested the Duke of Vainglory, "you should go first-"

"Too late," Joly chirped, practically throwing him into the portal. "Okay, Jehan, your turn-"

A length of chain bolted out from nowhere, constricting around Joly's wrist. He tried to wrench free, but it was too late. The demon on the other end gave an almighty tug, and Joly fell on his stomach, mud splattering into his mouth as he was dragged over the ground to the blade waiting in the dark.

He angled his body at the last possible second, his foot lashing out and slamming into his attacker's side. The others pounced on him, and because the hand that was holding Lady Forlorn was still immobilized by the chain, Joly had no choice but to use his knees and elbows as best as he could, knives slashing at him from all sides.

"Damn it, Joly, I can't get a clear shot!" Enjolras yelled. "Stop moving!"

"Oh, that's _really _easy for you to say, pal!" Joly snarled.

And then the assailants were falling away, twisting as holy water flooded through their veins. Jehan was coolly picking them off one by one, a look of intense concentration on his face as Nightfall's string hummed and twanged.

"Let me _go!" _Éponine screamed at Enjolras. "Let me _help-"_

But he had her in a viselike grip, pinning her to his side. Before she knew it, she was being roughly shoved into the portal back to New Advent, her eyes filling with blinding light.

* * *

Now that Éponine was gone- now that she was _safe- _Enjolras could fight without worrying about her. He hurled himself into the melee, blasting fire and lightning at the Envy legion. The explosions lit up the sky, trees sighing as they fell, as they burned. But they seemed to be sighing in gratitude, which added a macabre layer to the scene.

"_Rest," _murmured the Suicide Woods. _"Peace. At last, at last…"_

_A better world, _Enjolras thought wildly, as he swerved to avoid the blades. _I wanted to give you a better world. Was this what you sought, all along?_

Joly finally wrangled free of the chain around his wrist. He grabbed Enjolras like he had grabbed Combeferre, wrestling him away from the chaos, flinging shuriken at the demons that chased after them. The oak tree had caught on fire as well; there was only a limited window of time before it crumbled into ash and left them trapped in Dis.

"What are you doing?" Enjolras growled. "You're wounded. Leave this to me."

"Sorry, Enjolras," Joly panted, operating on pure adrenaline. "I'm more scared of Éponine than I am of you."

He pushed Enjolras through the portal, and then turned back to help Jehan.

The other boy was staring at him from a few feet away, fitting another arrow to his bow, the Envy legion almost upon him. The oak tree right behind Joly was going fast, hellfire licking at the sides of the shimmering portal, about to consume it entirely.

There was no way Jehan could reach it in time.

Joly took a step forward, ready to go down with his friend, his brother…

But then Jehan took aim. Not at the approaching demons, but at Joly.

And Joly realized, with a sickening ache in his heart, what was about to happen.

"No," he said, but it was too late. The arrow hit him on the shoulder, and he staggered back, the momentum carrying him right through the portal, just before it burned into nothingness.

* * *

Turning to face the legion, Jehan reached back to pull out another arrow from his quiver, but his fingers brushed only empty air. He was out.

He sighed, Nightfall dropping to his side. Several pairs of cruel eyes gleamed at him, reflecting the light of the howling inferno that was all that remained of the Suicide Woods.

"Are you ready to die?" one demon croaked, the words muffled by the mask on the lower half of its face.

Jehan smiled. "I was born ready."

It was a really cheesy thing to say. Courfeyrac would have been proud.

* * *

Joly's return went… largely unnoticed, for the most part. He fell on his back as the portal disappeared, and Bossuet and Musichetta rushed over to him, the latter quickly pulling the arrow out of his shoulder. But everyone else's attention was focused on Enjolras and Éponine, who were screaming at each other, their raised voices echoing through the stone halls of the Temple of the Dead.

"You- stupid- _unbelievable- _idiot!" Enjolras roared, his usual eloquence deserting him for once. "What the hell were you _thinking?"_

"We got your sorry ass out of there!" Éponine shot back, her dark eyes flashing. "You should be grateful!"

"_Grateful?" _Enjolras repeated menacingly. "You could have been killed! Did you think I would grovel at your feet, for putting yourself at so much risk?" He shook his head in disbelief. "All I ever wanted was to keep you safe, and you couldn't let me have even that!"

Éponine opened her mouth to retort, but at that exact moment, Courfeyrac caught sight of Joly.

"Where's Jehan?" Courfeyrac blurted out, the color draining from his face, and the room fell silent.

Joly could only stare back at him.

Courfeyrac sank to the floor, putting his head in his hands.

And the thing about Enjolras and Éponine was that they could both be terrible people when they were furious, when their nerves were on edge. Joly tended to forget that, so he had to stifle a cry of shock when Enjolras rounded on Éponine and hissed, "Do you see what you've done?"

The girl had gone as white as paper. "So my friend is dead because of me," she rasped. "I guess that's another thing you and I have in common."

"They've got to be joking," Musichetta whispered.

Enjolras drew himself up to his full height. "How dare you bring Grantaire into this-"

"Grantaire and Bahorel," Éponine corrected him cruelly. "Bahorel's dead, too, and Feuilly's exiled. Congrats, _darling." _She smirked with all the bravado she could muster. "Long live your revolution."

"_Shut the fuck up!" _Courfeyrac's voice cracked like a thunderbolt, and all eyes snapped to him. He looked around at them, his expression ravaged by grief. "Let's… let's just go back to the city, okay?" His lip trembled wearily. "Let's just… figure out what to do."

"What for?" Bossuet asked, his hand on Joly's uninjured shoulder as he glared at Enjolras and Éponine. "I think those two have done enough."

Éponine stomped out of the temple, and she couldn't resist giving Enjolras a shove as she went past him.

"Go to her, Marius," murmured Cosette, who was still a little woozy from the effort of having kept the portal open for so long. "Calm her down."

* * *

After the darkness of Dis, the bright sunlit sky hurt Éponine's eyes when she stepped onto the white sand. She clenched her fists and screwed her eyelids shut, and she screamed and screamed and screamed, until her throat hurt, until her voice was raw.

Jehan, sweet and kind and gentle Jehan, left behind in the underworld to face his end alone. Bahorel, loud and vibrant and obnoxious, swallowed up by the jaws of the Nightmare Child. Grantaire, lazy and cynical, but soft-hearted when he wanted to be, dead because he had believed, not in the cause, but in the people behind it.

Éponine was never going to see them again.

A hand reached out to stroke her back in a mute gesture of comfort, and she turned around, and it was Marius, his freckled face earnest and sincere, his green eyes glowing in the light of day.

Angel light. Grace.

Behind him, she saw Enjolras emerging from the Necromanteion. Éponine didn't even think about it. Furious at Enjolras, furious at herself, wanting only to hurt the way she had been hurt, she grabbed Marius by the shoulders and kissed him.

It was horrible and awkward, a mockery of what a kiss should be. Marius didn't respond, but neither did he push her away, and an uncomfortable feeling churned in her gut, the feeling that he was only giving in to her out of pity.

She broke the kiss, to find everyone else standing at the entrance of the temple. Cosette looked vaguely ill, Musichetta was shaking her head, and Joly, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre wore expressions ranging from bafflement to outright shock.

Enjolras, though, was wrath incarnate, his cheeks flushed red, embers lurking in his eyes.

_I don't know why you're all so surprised, _Éponine thought defiantly, stepping away from Marius and lifting her chin. _This is what I do. I ruin things. I take what I can get._

Once a Thénardier, always a Thénardier.

They trooped back to the boat in silence, with Éponine refusing to meet anyone's eyes. Feuilly beamed when he saw Enjolras and Combeferre, but his face fell again when he realized Jehan and Grantaire were missing. What should have been a happy reunion among the three demons became nothing more than an exchange of solemn nods.

"Two hundred indulgences if you don't ask any questions," Courfeyrac told the fisherman heavily, and the latter nodded.

They got into the boat. Much care was taken to separate Enjolras and Éponine, keeping them as far from each other as was physically possible. The waves bore them back to the coastline of New Advent, and, as they travelled, Éponine couldn't help glancing at Enjolras on the other end. He was gazing into space, his features hopeless and bleak, the dazzling sunlight blurring his sharp profile.

The wind blew over the Sea of Ghosts, making a sound like a song of loss. Éponine shivered.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	14. World's End

**Notes: **Second-to-the-last chapter, and the longest one yet! This is the point where I need any and all feedback you can give, so that I can make an ending that won't disappoint. Also, um, there is smut here; it's not that graphic, but it's there, and I apologize in advance if it's terrible, but I don't know how to write sex things. Thank you as always for all the support, lovely readers! AND I'M REALLY SORRY ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED LAST CHAPTER, BUT I'M EVEN MORE SORRY FOR WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN IN THIS ONE.

* * *

_For Anna (loveholic198) and Bri (msbarks) on Tumblr, who have gone out of their way to make the most amazing graphics for this story. I love you both, and your talent inspires me to be better so I can deserve you!_

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

**World's End**

* * *

_Enjolras is cruel. He knows this about himself. The children of Wrath are cursed to leave destruction in their wake, trailing after them like a cloak made from ashes. As one of the Resistance leaders, he had been willing to sear the message into the very heart of Dis itself; words of anarchy, words of ichor and embers. He would have welcomed the new world as it emerged from the anguished screams and the broken bones of its martyrs, would have brought the hierarchy crashing down no matter how high the cost._

_Yes, he is cruel, but what he doesn't realize, until he sees Éponine again, is how selfish he can also be._

_When her face presses against the bars of his cell, he is furious and afraid. How dare she come here, where he can't protect her? When he had continued fighting after the war was lost on the off-chance that he had prevented- or, at the very least, delayed- Lucifer's invasion of her city…_

_When she unlocks his cell and turns away to follow the others, he grabs her, blinded by rage and desperation, determined to spin her around and shake some sense into her, into this awful, prickly little moron who can never understand just how _much-_ just how much he-_

_But his hands fly, as if of their own volition, to her waist, not her shoulders. The moment he touches her again, Wrath passes, and its fallen prince is struck down only by the sweetest, most piercing solace._

_Because she is _here. _Because he thought he would never see her again._

_Deep in the dank stone and the trembling vapors of the underworld, Enjolras holds Éponine and cries the harsh and silent tears of the past four years, disappearing into her familiar scent, into the soft skin and the dark hair he's dreamed of all through the long and lonely nights. His lips trace the old worlds on her neck. _Fire of my blood. The air in my lungs. You. Always you. _He's too weakened by grief and regret to say them out loud, but he's quietly willing her to understand, _please _understand…_

_And he can no longer tell if he's crying for her or for them, or for his failed revolution and his dead comrades, but the only emotion that is clear to him at this point is relief, _you came for me, there is still hope in all this darkness, everything is gone but I still have you.

_This knowledge fills him with so much shame that, when the others interrupt them, when he has to pull away from her, he is almost, almost grateful for it._

* * *

The smell of the sea lingered in Combeferre's memory as the group entered Café Musain, saltwater and sun-drenched air superimposing over the earthy tang of strong coffee and bitter wood. It was early afternoon in New Advent, that time of full stomachs and mellow light, so the establishment was deserted except for a couple of waitresses and the manager, who was on the Order's payroll in the sense that she got paid for not wondering why a bunch of people insisted on hanging out in the empty back room.

Currently, Madame Huchloup was glued to the radio on the counter, but her round face lit up with excitement when the front door slid shut behind Éponine, who was trailing after the rest of the group.

"The most _shocking _news!" Madame Huchloup gushed. "One of the warehouses at the docks caught on fire earlier this morning. Police arrived at the scene and found Valjean and Champmathieu scrambling to get away."

"Oh. Er…" Marius cleared his throat. "That is most- that truly is most shocking."

Behind Marius, Musichetta rolled her eyes and shot a vaguely annoyed look at Cosette, who gave the barest of shrugs. Combeferre began to suspect that the three angels knew more than they were letting on, but he was too tired to ponder the matter. His attention was fixed on Enjolras, who, ever since they left the Temple of the Dead, had seemed about five seconds away from punching someone.

Combeferre had a pretty good idea who that _someone _was, but the way he saw it, Marius was innocent, a hapless victim caught in the crossfire of Enjolras and Éponine's unresolved issues. Combeferre was exhausted from battle, from watching people die, from hours spent huddled on the rough ground of the Tartarus Pits, but he remained alert, ready to calm Enjolras down- or to drag him away- at the next explosion of temper.

A demon's rage was always fiery, but the wrath of the Wrath legion, when in full force, took no prisoners, left nothing but ruin. Combeferre genuinely feared for everyone's lives if Enjolras got pushed too far, and in this vein, he prayed that Éponine would keep her mouth shut.

But the girl seemed to have run out of all spirit. She was standing apart from the others, her arms folded across her chest, her long hair spilling forward, shielding most of her features from view. Combeferre recognized defeat when he saw it, although he had rarely ever seen Éponine defeated, in the time before.

Madame Huchloup was talking again. "So the police detained them while they searched the warehouse, and they found _tons _of communion wafers inside. Champmathieu walked on a technicality, but you know how President Javert is about Valjean. The man's imprisoned in the Basilica right now."

"Why the Basilica and not the actual prison?" asked Bossuet.

"I guess Javert's not taking any chances," said Madame Huchloup. "I mean, would _you? _This arrest has been years in the making." She switched off the radio and looked around at them. "So, are you kids going to help me reach quota today, or what?"

Combeferre expected the group to make their excuses and troop past Madame Huchloup, retreating behind the safety of the headquarters' walls, but Courfeyrac suddenly blurted out, "Coffee, guys?"

The Templar's voice was full of desperation, his brown eyes begging for something. _Take this away. Help me endure._

Combeferre found himself nodding along with the rest. They placed their orders and sat down at one of the big tables in the center of the café. Out of instinct, he did a headcount and realized they were two people short.

He glanced up just in time to see Éponine disappearing into the back room, with Enjolras on her heels.

Combeferre moved to stand up, but was quickly pulled down by Joly and Feuilly, who were respectively seated to his left and his right.

"Let them talk about it," Feuilly muttered. "Let them shout, let them fight, let them burn. It's out of your hands now, 'Ferre."

"But-" Combeferre started to argue.

Joly patted his wrist. "Cheer up, Dad," he joked with a sad smile, the sins of the Schism forgiven as Combeferre knew they had been when he saw Joly's face loom up beyond the bars, from the shadows of Tartarus. "Sometimes they go where you can't follow."

* * *

Éponine didn't think she could bear facing both Marius and Courfeyrac over something as mundane as coffee, not when the memory of the kiss on the island was still hollowing out her stomach with a horrifying kind of embarrassment, not when the last words she'd heard Jehan say were still ringing in her ears.

_Run. Just… run!_

Éponine slipped away from the group and went to the base, having no idea what she would do once she got there. Break something, probably. Anything to relieve the tension that was relentlessly gnawing at every inch of her.

She didn't notice Enjolras trailing after her until he wedged his foot between the door and the wall, before the headquarters' entrance could shut in his face. Refusing to acknowledge his presence, she divested herself of her cloak and hung Dark Sister on the weapons rack, and then headed to the bathroom to change out of her leather armor.

When she reappeared, dressed in one of the ratty, tight-fitting cotton tees she'd left lying around the base and a pair of boxers she'd borrowed from Courfeyrac, Enjolras was standing in the middle of the room, looking at her wordlessly.

Her fists clenching, Éponine braced herself for the inevitable outpouring of anger and recriminations. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders defiantly, staring into Enjolras' stormy blue eyes. She tried not to notice the bruises under them, or his sallow complexion, or the stiff way he held himself like he would fall apart if he let his posture relax even the slightest bit.

Tired. They were all tired. Sometimes the simplest words were the ones that suited the situation best. She was running on an hour of sleep and the adrenaline left over from the rescue mission; he had just fought and lost a war.

"Are you in love with Marius?" Enjolras asked roughly, bluntly.

Éponine's first instinct was to laugh. What a stupid question from a stupid boy. Everything she could ever feel for someone else, all the parts of her that she could ever give away- she'd wasted them all on him. He'd consumed her so completely that she was now only ashes, only a ghost.

But she still couldn't forget what happened at the Necromanteion, how he'd blamed her for Jehan's death without knowing that she also blamed herself, so she replied, "What if I am? You don't have a claim on me anymore. And Marius is better for me than you ever were."

Enjolras growled, low and furious and deep in his throat, his eyes flashing dangerously. Éponine sensed that she'd gone too far, on top of everything else, but before she could beat a hasty retreat, he grabbed her by the arm and pressed her back against the wall, trapping her in place with his body. Her knee automatically shot up to hit him where it would hurt the most, but, anticipating the movement, he clamped it between his thighs.

And, because she was Éponine Thénardier, wicked and reckless and maybe slightly unhinged from all that she had lost, she managed to force her knee up slightly, until it was grazing the front of his trousers.

Enjolras' gaze darkened in warning, and Éponine smirked. "What now, pretty boy?" she rasped, her tone making a mockery of the old pet name, of all the old moments that had started with their faces close together like this. "Are you going to show me hellfire? See how long I can stand it?"

_Too much, too much, _her mind screamed at her as she watched his cheeks loose what little color they had, but there was no turning back. She was being deliberately cruel, searching for something to hold on to. She knew he would never hurt her- not physically, at least- she knew he wasn't that kind of monster- but she was so full of pain and sorrow, so tense and exhausted, that there was a part of her that wanted him to prove her wrong.

"Will you burn me like our friends burned?" Éponine continued to taunt, the smirk still on her lips, her gaze focused on the embers lurking in Enjolras' eyes. "Will I die like they did?"

The line of his jaw tightened and his hands lashed out, as quickly as lightning. Her breath hitched in surprise, in sick and twisted triumph, but instead of delivering the blow or the inferno she'd almost been expecting, his hands snaked under her shirt, sliding over her stomach before cupping her breasts, his palms rubbing the lacy material of her bra into her skin.

"What the hell are you doing?" she hissed, even as tendrils of slow heat coiled in her abdomen. She struggled not to arch into his touch, willed her spine to stay put, gritting her teeth against a whimper when his ministrations increased in pressure and urgency.

"Can your precious Marius make you feel like this?" Enjolras snarled, leaning in close and nipping at the point where Éponine's ear met her jaw. She shuddered, and it was his turn to smirk.

"How about this?" he asked, and his mouth transferred to the slope of her neck, nibbling until her legs gave way. She would have slid to the floor, but he thrust his hips forward, holding her in place, grinding against her as he continued the relentless assault on her senses.

_You bastard, _Éponine thought bitterly. _You know all my weak spots. I gave them to you and you're using them against me. _She stared straight ahead, over the jut of his shoulder, determined not to give in to him, determined not to surrender the harsh present to the soft dark waters of memory.

It would have worked, if Enjolras hadn't decided to change tactics. His movements grew gentler, lips brushing whisper-soft on her neck, thumbs tracing idle patterns on the pads of her bra.

"Or this?" he murmured leisurely, one hand dropping from her breast to wedge itself beneath the loose garter of her boxers, stroking her through her gradually dampening underwear.

Éponine's hips spasmed, involuntarily bucking into his palm. Enjolras pulled back his head to look at her with triumphant eyes. _Mine. Mine, now._

_No, _Éponine retorted silently, fiercely. _Mine._

She grabbed his jaw, deciding to take a more active role in her downfall, to kiss the smugness away from his features. But before their mouths could collide, he wrenched out of her grip at the last possible second, and her lips caught his cheek instead, before he buried his face in her neck once more.

That was when she began to realize, with a hint of cold dread, that something was wrong. Why didn't he want to kiss her? She was almost tempted to ask him out loud, but then his fingers finally slipped inside her, and all rational thought fled from her system.

It didn't take long, not really, because her nerves were on edge and those fingers knew every inch of her, knew exactly where to graze, where to press, how to curl, how to leave her gasping. He bit down on her collarbone and she came undone, because of course her body would betray her like this, because of course _he_ would be an expert in the art of betrayal. She clamped her lips together, tightly enough to hurt, tightly enough to refrain from crying out loud.

When Enjolras lifted his head to look at Éponine again, she had already managed to compose her expression into a semblance of normalcy. His gaze lingered on her swollen mouth, and something like pain flickered in the depths of his eyes.

They weren't done yet; he was hard against her, and she needed more. He took her hand in his, the heat from his wet fingers branding her wrist as he led her to the nearest bunk bed. He stared at her intently, his pale brow furrowing in a quiet request for permission. _Do you want this? Do you want me?_

_No, _Éponine thought once more, because she was good at lying, because she could spin lies even at the end of all things, even to herself, even with unspoken words. She tried to kiss him for the second time, but he recoiled, and there it was, that strange pain shading his irises, and at last she understood.

Enjolras didn't want to kiss her, because the act would remind him that he had seen her kiss someone else.

She almost blurted out an apology. Almost. The fact that she very nearly did filled her with rage, and so, when he tried to guide her down to the mattress, she shook her head and turned her back to him, because, okay, she was going to lose this battle, but she would be _damned _if she surrendered the war.

Éponine heard a sharp intake of breath.

"Fine," Enjolras muttered, sounding frustrated and oddly young. "If that's how you want it."

And then his chest was pressing into her back, and his breath was ragged and his lips were restless on her jaw and on her neck, and his hands were _everywhere, _running over her body as if following the beloved lines of a familiar map, sending sparks through her thin clothes. She reached back, reached up, tugging at his soft hair, arching into his touch.

Enjolras nibbled and licked his way up Éponine's throat as she craned her neck onto his shoulder. He flung one arm across her chest, dragging his fingers over her achingly sensitive breasts, while his other hand pumped into her in a rhythm too jagged to be gentle, yet at the same time too slow to not mean anything at all. Her hips rolled back into his, and she could feel him through the thin material of her boxers, throbbing and hard for her. Her eyelids drifted half-shut, and it was only brief flashes for Éponine- the crack in the wall, the blur of golden curls, an aquiline nose, silver glowing blue in the distance- all these images were robbed of context, until they seemed like glimpses of another life, like a happy ending looking in from another room.

_I'd like that, _Éponine mused, shaking with all the old feelings that Enjolras' fingers and lips were beckoning to the surface. _Another room. The gold and the blue. A world where everyone gets what they want._

He carefully bent her over the mattress, his hand settling on her shoulder as if asking her if she were sure. She was sure. She needed this. She needed to forget, however briefly. But she didn't want to have to look at him.

And then he was tugging her boxers and her underwear past her knees, and he was fumbling with his trousers and she was parting her thighs, and he was inside her, _at last, at last, love, it's been too long. _He took her from behind as she perched on the edge of the bed, trailing his elegant fingers down her spine. She bit her lip and buried her face in the pillow even as she rolled her hips back onto his, because she didn't want to make a sound, because she didn't want to give him that as well.

He was quiet, too, all rough breathing and tattered sighs. No soft endearments whispered in the other's ear, no gentle caresses, not like before. They were both channeling their rage and regret into this act, using each other as ruthlessly as words had spilled from their mouths in the Temple of the Dead.

The dead, the dead, the people they hadn't been able to save…

He thrust deeper, harder, and this time she couldn't help the moan that escaped from her throat. He shuddered at the sound of her voice, his movements growing more erratic, the way they always did when he was close.

"Ep," he gasped hoarsely into her ear, "need to see you- your face- your eyes- _please-"_

She started to protest, but she was already letting him turn her around. They eased into the bed and he flattened her back into the mattress, and he was moving inside her, his eyes so blue, hungrily lapping up every inch of her features with tender reverence.

Éponine fought back tears. _Not again, not like this, don't make me love you again._ But Enjolras lifted his hips slightly to slam _up _into her, and the feeling, the _feeling, _the only thought left to her was, _Kiss me._

And he still wasn't kissing her, but his fingers were tracing shaky patterns on her cheek. The old runes, the old words. _Neb taui. Di. Nefer. _Everything. Forever. The most beautiful.

And she closed her eyes and unraveled. She spun off the edge and he followed, with a soft and strangled cry, and she thought that, maybe, just maybe, she might have said his name.

* * *

He collapsed on top of her, hiding his face in the crook of her shoulder, burying his fingers in the dark waves of her hair, keeping her to himself a little while longer until she tensed in his arms and he had to roll away.

They rearranged their mussed clothes, and Éponine crawled back into bed, tucking herself under the covers while Enjolras staggered to the couch. They were asleep within minutes; he was thankfully too tired to dream.

* * *

When he woke up, rain was tapping at the windows, the sky bruised and lightning-streaked. Everyone was gathered around the television set, watching Javert address a slew of reporters outside the Basilica, an aide-de-camp holding an umbrella over his head.

"Today, justice has been served," the President announced sternly. "Jean Valjean has been apprehended, and we have concrete evidence of his involvement in the drug trafficking ring. He will be in jail for a very long time…"

He trailed off, the color draining from his rough features. He blinked at the cameras, as if in confusion. "I… I don't…"

Bossuet leaned forward with a frown. "What's up with him?"

On the flickering bluish screen, Javert cried out as his neck twisted almost a hundred and eighty degrees. His head shook from side to side, teeth rattling, eliciting mutters from the crowd.

"No," said Combeferre, leaping to his feet.

"_Citizens of New Advent," _crooned a languid voice from Javert's lips as the man stilled and stared at the reporters with eyes that had suddenly gone pale, _"for four years we have coexisted on the ashes of the Great Schism- if not in peace, then in tolerance, our two nations brought to heel by the terms of the ceasefire. This has worked out in everyone's favor…"_

Courfeyrac pointed a trembling finger at the television set. "Who is that?" he demanded angrily. "Who the _fuck _is that?"

Enjolras didn't say anything, but he would have known that voice anywhere. A chill went down his spine. This wasn't happening. This _couldn't _be happening.

"_Unfortunately," _continued the demon inside Javert over the spectators' growing unease, _"today you have broken the peace treaty. You opened the portal. You illegally extradited seditious criminals from our borders, and you are harboring them now. In light of these events, we of the underworld have no choice but to meet aggression with aggression, to punish all traitors."_

And then there was smoke, curdling in the pouring rain, and the reporters were screaming, and Lucifer, the Morningstar, King of Kings, was rising up from the slumped, quivering body of the President in a swirling and ferocious mass of hellfire, his scaled wings stretching out under the darkening sky.

"I am Light-bringer, son of the dawn, first of the Fallen," he roared, amethyst eyes flashing, palms unfurled at his sides. "I am Lord of the Seven Legions, and I will bring the sword down upon your treacherous city. I am Lucifer of the Final Circle, and I declare _war."_

With this last word, the earth shook, and behind him the chasm opened, burning red in the gloom, and a host of rustling wings and eager teeth filled the storm-stained air as the demons came pouring out.

* * *

"That bastard planned this!" Musichetta yelled as the base became a flurry of activity, with the Templars donning their armor and strapping on their weapons, Courfeyrac placing frantic calls to the rest of the Order, barking instructions into the mouthpiece.

"He knew someone would rescue the imprisoned rebels," said Cosette, the pieces finally clicking into place. "He wanted to finish what he started years ago, and we gave him the perfect excuse."

Joly whirled on her. "What do you mean, what _he _started?"

"Vestal light is demon-made," replied Musichetta. "Dis is the one supplying the main ingredient of the communion wafers to the Five Families. It wasn't humans that killed Bonaparte and started the Schism. New Advent was framed."

"That doesn't make sense!" Bossuet blurted out. "Why would Dis assassinate its own ambassador?"

"Lucifer needed a reason," said Feuilly meditatively. "And he always hated Bonaparte. Two birds with one stone…"

"It's Orpheus and Eurydice all over again," Marius remarked.

Cosette opened her mouth to say something else, but she froze, caught in a net of shimmering light.

Marius glanced at the wall clock. "Our time's up," he announced to the room as he paled beneath his freckles. "It's the recall."

"You can't leave us here!" cried Éponine. "The city's under attack!"

"Father," Cosette murmured out loud, her golden hair blowing about her face. "Father, wait…"

There it was again, the eerie, silent conversation in her head. But, this time, she relayed the news to the other people in the room, her brow furrowing. "The Silver City says it's out of our hands… New Advent breached the ceasefire… Lucifer is in the right…"

"Bullshit!" snarled Enjolras. "Tell them about the Morningstar's plan. Tell them about vestal light!"

"_You have no proof." _It was not Cosette's voice that answered, but the many voices of the Metatron. _"We are recalling our agents. We cannot interfere. The one who opened the portal will be… dealt with… but that is all we can do, under international law."_

"Fuck your international law!" Enjolras shouted. "People are going to die!"

"_People have already died, child of the rebellion," _rumbled the Metatron. "Your _people."_

The glow radiating from Cosette's slim form began to spread, began to curl its tendrils around Marius and Musichetta.

"That's it, then," Courfeyrac said bitterly. "New Advent's on its own."

Combeferre clapped him on the back. "No, you're not."

"I'm not going," Cosette said suddenly, in her own voice.

"Neither am I," Musichetta quickly added.

Marius glanced from one to the other, looking panicked. And then his features softened with resignation. "Well, I guess I'm staying, too."

And, before the Templars' and the demons' surprised eyes, the three angels threw off the recall, and the light of the Silver City disappeared from the room.

"We are in so much trouble," Marius whispered.

Cosette giggled. "I know. Isn't it great?"

* * *

In the world beneath the world, inside her castle on the lush plains of Nineveh, Ishtar was preparing to go to war once more. She and Baal would comprise the final wave of invasion, combining what was left of their troops.

The sweet, cloying perfume of incense thickened the air as the Queen of Lust slipped into her golden armor. Candlelight fell into the hollow spaces where Orpheus' eyes had once been, his head perched on her nightstand.

"You've a habit of saving me, my lady," the pale young man mildly remarked.

Ishtar sneered. "Salvation? Please. Limbo is not the only fate. You are an oracle no longer. You have no more purpose. You will rot for all eternity."

"If you truly wanted to punish me, you would have had them cut out my tongue."

Ishtar said nothing. Orpheus grinned. "I sang to you once, so long ago," he continued. "As the waves towered over Atlantis, I told you how much I loved, how much I longed. You looked at me as the Furies wept. You looked at me, and you were Astarte again."

"Astarte is gone," snapped Ishtar, consigning the name to the bleak embers of memory, the name she had taken in her youth, when she had been kinder, when she once thought she could desire without destroying. "Astarte went into the Tartarus Pits to watch Tammuz die, and Ishtar walked out. I am no longer the Evening Star."

"But I seem to remember how the Evening Star shed her light on the Untitled," murmured Orpheus. "Why did you let the child Feuilly go? You must have known he would find some way to contact the mortals…" His brow creased, and when he next spoke, his voice dripped with censure. "Ah, perhaps you are sneakier and more cruel than I thought."

"What do you mean?" Ishtar asked coldly. "I exiled him because it was worse than death."

Orpheus was blind now, but he could still hear the tension in her voice. "Or because you could not bring yourself to kill him." He relaxed. "So you were truly unaware of the Morningstar's plan."

"You speak in riddles."

"As I said," mused Orpheus sadly, "you should have let them cut out my tongue."

* * *

Strategies were quickly drawn up. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac were in their element, falling together into a seamless display of teamwork.

"Our best chance is vestal light," said Combeferre. "Hopefully the Five Families still have enough."

"We need to get Valjean," said Courfeyrac. "Get him to tell us where their supply is."

Enjolras was poring over a map of New Advent spread out on the dining table, hastily cross-referencing it with the news reports flashing on the television screen and the messages pouring in from the other Templars who had been dispatched to various parts of the city. "Alecto's wreaking havoc along Ghost Avenue. We need to take her out as soon as possible."

"I'm on it," Musichetta said grimly.

"I'm going with you," Joly and Bossuet said at the same time.

Enjolras nodded. "Gluttony, Envy, and Greed are swarming over the Chinatown area. That's a strategic position. From there, they can spread on both sides and outflank the New Advent forces."

Combeferre smiled. "Not if I can help it, General."

"Same," Feuilly echoed.

"All right," said Enjolras. He pointed at the center of the map. "The fighting is thickest at the Basilica, where Valjean is being held. I'll handle it. Marius, Cosette, and Courfeyrac, the three of you stay here and wait for my word as to the vestal light supply's location. Be prepared to leave at once."

Éponine raised an eyebrow. "And what about me? What do I do?"

"Well, you can stay here, too-" Enjolras began, but he already knew it was a lost cause.

"Nice try," said Éponine. "I'm going with you, Enjolras."

* * *

The fighting had not yet reached Requiem Street, although the ground shook and the red-gold glow of fierce explosions loomed in the distance, muffled to dull thuds by the pouring rain. People were running and screaming as cars collided into one another, metal crunching and tires screeching off the road. The panicked flood of pedestrians swallowed up the group as they rushed out of Café Musain. A squadron of New Advent fighter planes flew overhead, in the direction of Chinatown.

There was no time to say goodbye. Éponine blinked, and her friends were gone, disappearing into the madness. She turned to Enjolras, but a hand suddenly shot out to tug at her wrist, and she found herself looking into Combeferre's eyes.

"Four years ago," he said, over the roar of the wind, "I saw- I _think _I saw Azelma on the street, before Enjolras gave the detonation order. I've been replaying that day again and again in my mind, and each time I become more certain. If I never see you again, I just wanted you to know."

Éponine blinked at him, a hush falling over the slowing world until she could hear only the thundering beat of her own heart. Adrenaline and weariness mingled in her veins, and in the space between them, at the half-way point, there glimmered the most precise, exquisite clarity, like the evening star rising up from the folds of the blackest night.

_Sister. Blood of my blood. Could anyone have saved you?_

_How long until I find grace?_

She was so tired.

Éponine drew her clenched fist back and punched Combeferre in the eye, sending him reeling. He gaped at her, his hand cradling the sore spot, and without another word she made her way to Enjolras, who was observing the scene with mild surprise.

"Ep, are we good?" Combeferre called out piteously.

"We're good, 'Ferre!" Éponine replied over her shoulder as Enjolras scooped her into his arms, ready to fly to the Basilica. "We're good."

* * *

The door of Valjean's cell burst open, kicked nearly off its hinges by a heavily booted foot. The man looked up from the chair where he sat, and smiled.

"My dear," Valjean murmured, "I knew you would come for me."

"I pay my debts," said Fantine, a black M4 carbine in her delicate hands. "Hurry up. There's a war on. We have to mobilize the Wretched."

Valjean stood slowly, wincing as his joints creaked in protest. The years had been unkind. "Just like old times."

Fantine finally returned his smile from across the room. "Yes."

* * *

By the time Enjolras and Éponine reached the Basilica, the city was a blur of gunpowder and hellfire. New Advent's troops were holding their own against the Dis legions, who were fewer in number and weakened by the rebellion that had transpired in the underworld. But mortal weapons couldn't actually kill demons, could only stun them and drive them back; without vestal light or angelic intervention, the humans had no chance.

"There's Valjean!" Éponine yelled in Enjolras' ear. The man was climbing a rope ladder trailing from a helicopter hovering almost directly above the open chasm, an ugly, gaping streak of embers amidst the jagged concrete.

Enjolras steered them in the helicopter's direction, deftly avoiding the stray arrows of Acedia. He practically tossed Éponine inside the aircraft, sending her sprawling across Valjean's and Fantine's laps.

"I beg your pardon!" Fantine sniffed, affronted.

Éponine wasted no time. "Madame," she panted, "Monsieur- I know you have vestal light. Tell us where it is. It's the only way."

Valjean and Fantine glanced at each other. Finally, the man said, "There's an entire lab on your family's estate, Éponine. You know, that complex by the lake-"

"_The Chanvrerie?" _Éponine shouted. "You turned our summerhouse into a _drug lab?"_

"Well, you weren't using it anymore!" sputtered Valjean.

"Tell Courfeyrac, Marius, and Cosette to head there and start clearing the place," Enjolras instructed Éponine from outside the helicopter. "Send messages to the others, too. We'll all meet up there."

Éponine had barely dug out her phone and finished complying, when the helicopter's pilot suddenly screamed, "Incoming!"

A boiling mass of hellfire was headed their way. Enjolras whirled to face it, his wings folding around him like a shield, blocking the helicopter's opening with his own body.

Éponine's heart leapt in her throat as the flames slammed into Enjolras. For a brief few seconds, he existed to her as nothing more than a silhouette, burning at the edges, the white-hot glare of the collision slicing into her eyes, and she was always going to remember this moment, wasn't she, the image of him trapped in amber and smoke, searing itself into the very recesses of her soul…

When the explosion died down, he looked at her over his shoulder, ichor dripping from his temple.

"Go with them, Éponine," Enjolras grated out, a bit unsteadily, nodding at the others inside the helicopter. "Get them to take you to the Chanvrerie. I have to help the people here."

"We have to go together, you idiot!" Éponine snapped.

"No." He sent her a rueful half-smile. "No, we don't. I'll meet you there, I promise."

And then the helicopter was lifting further up into the air, and Éponine was staring down at Enjolras as fire and lightning crackled in his palms, preparing himself for battle, preparing to sacrifice himself for the greater good-

Fantine's breath hitched like she had correctly deciphered the expression on Éponine's face. "Don't do it, child. He's giving you a way out."

"I don't want a way out," Éponine muttered. "I want a way _through."_

And then she hurled herself from the helicopter and fell with the rain, and Enjolras looked up, all pale features and golden hair and wide blue eyes, and he soared up through the air and she crashed into his arms, as she had known she would.

* * *

Musichetta hissed in pain as a throwing star glanced off her wing. "Damn it, Joly!" she yelled at the Templar on the ground.

"It was Bossuet!" Joly cried. "He bumped into me and threw off my aim- _look out!"_

Musichetta spun just in time to avoid a blow from Alecto's huge claws. The last remaining Fury was vengeance incarnate, knocking fighter planes askew, gouging lines into glass and cement. Her movements were slow, however; slow, and just this side of clumsy and erratic. Old injuries, left over from the Schism, from when the angel Samael had driven her back to the underworld.

Alecto's beady red eyes fixed on Musichetta, and, by unspoken agreement, the two of them flew higher, until the people below were nothing but tiny dots. Musichetta's sickle whirled at her side, attached to a length of chain wrapped around her revolving wrist, the silver blade singing fine and sharp through the air.

"Sister,"hissed Alecto, in the ancient tongue, in a dark and gurgling voice.

Musichetta looked at her calmly. "Your sisters are dead," she responded in kind.

The Fury appeared pleased. "You know the old words."

"I was a good student," Musichetta remarked. "I know the old words, and I know that the Erinyes cannot fight alone. It should always be three, yeah? Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos... Badb, Macha, Nemain… Stheno, Euryale, and Medusa."

Alecto shuddered. "When did _we _become _I?"_

"The old stories say you were the first to weep," Musichetta continued, "when Orpheus sang."

"Perhaps," rasped Alecto.

She dove forward, screeching into the rain, and Musichetta braced herself for the barrage of claws and all that curdling, primordial anger.

* * *

Enjolras felt Éponine grit her teeth against his chest as the rain around them froze into small, sharp icicles.

"Belial," he growled, his arms tightening around her, shielding her from the worst of the debris. They plummeted to earth, and once they hit the ground, she sprung away from him, her gunblade at the ready, blazing with sapphire light.

Enjolras had never actually seen Éponine fight, and it was terrifying to behold. She slashed and twisted through the demonic ranks, kicking their feet out from under them, elbowing them right in the eyes, knowing exactly when to pull the gunblade's trigger so that the resulting explosion would knock back multiple foes at once.

For his part, Enjolras was busy sending blasts of hellfire at the Vainglory and Acedia ranks, while at the same time looking around wildly for Belial. He knew the King of Vainglory was around _somewhere, _since the shower of icy projectiles didn't seem to be stopping anytime soon.

His back hit someone else's, and, lightning forming in his palm, he whirled around.

This movement was mimicked by Éponine, Dark Sister's blade already coming up to decapitate her would-be attacker, and Enjolras looked into her gold-flecked eyes as they widened.

"Duck!" she cried, but before he could, she sent a foot into his stomach, kicking him away from her. Her weapon sliced into nothing but empty air.

Enjolras grunted in pain. "Be more careful next time!" he yelled.

Bristling, she opened her mouth to retort, but then the chasm rumbled once more.

_Shit, _thought Enjolras, recognizing the battle cries that emerged from the embers.

The Wrath and Lust legions swarmed onto the surface, headed by Baal and Ishtar. A great cheer arose from the Dis troops.

Baal lowered himself to the ground, right in front of Enjolras. "My child," he said with a cruel smirk. "Traitor and oath-breaker. I shall give you the death you deserve."

"Maybe I'll give you yours first," Enjolras snarled.

Baal's crimson eyes flickered to Éponine. "What a strange thing your loyalties are, fallen Prince," he mused. "I remember how quickly you went to my aid four years ago. I remember how you didn't even flinch when the child perished. And, yet, you headed the revolution that would have overthrown your sovereigns. Do vows really mean so little to you?"

Éponine paled at the callous mention of her sister, and as Enjolras glanced at her, it came back to him, everything he had once sworn to her, the broken promise to come home.

_All that I have lost._

Bile and rage churned through the knot in his throat. Hellfire unfurling all around him, he grabbed Baal by the collar, and, with a strength he had not known he was capable of, dragged the King of Wrath high into the air.

"What… what are you doing?" wheezed Baal through the stranglehold.

"You want to know my loyalties?" Enjolras roared, and he dove again, sending them both into freefall, the war-torn streets rushing up to meet them. "Here!" He slammed Baal face-down into the concrete, into the exact spot that had haunted his dreams for four years. "Where she died! _This _is where my loyalties lie!"

And then it burst from him, lightning and fire and fury, engulfing Baal in a deadly explosion. The demon king screamed as he was overcome, burned and torn apart.

Enjolras didn't allow himself to gloat in his triumph. He left Baal's charred corpse behind and staggered back to Éponine, sapped of all power, no longer able to fly. He shoved his way through the battlefield, grimacing as he experimentally flexed his fingers and managed to produce only brief spurts of flame.

When he reached her, there were four demons lying at her feet, groaning weakly, but before he could breathe a sigh of relief, he looked to where she was facing, and his veins ran cold.

Lucifer was smiling at Éponine, pale and silver-haired amidst the fading light. His amethyst eyes narrowed speculatively once he caught sight of Enjolras, and the curve of his thin lips turned cunning.

The Morningstar disappeared, in a flash of smoke.

And Éponine fell to the ground, screaming in pain, Dark Sister sliding out of her grip.

Enjolras stepped forward, but she suddenly lifted her head, her fingernails scrabbling at the concrete.

"_What will you do now, Enjolras?" _she sneered in Lucifer's voice. _"What else is there left to do?"_

Enjolras crouched down, forcing her chin up. "Get the fuck out of her head!"

She wrenched away from him with unnatural strength. _"I think I won't. I kind of like it here. It feels like home." _She rose to her feet, in sharp and jerky movements, and then she grabbed Enjolras by the shoulders.

"Kill me," Éponine croaked.

Enjolras' mouth went dry. "What?"

But he already knew what she meant. If the Possessed body died, the demon inside went to the fate worse than death. That was why Enjolras had hurriedly left Mabeuf's body, in that abandoned warehouse on the corner of Mourning and Pine.

_Even _you _can't worm your way out of Limbo, you little shit._

And neither could Lucifer.

Here it was, the chance to end the war.

Éponine nodded at the gunblade. "Come on," she rasped. "Do it." Her face was clammy with sweat, with the effort of fighting off the ungraceful state. "All sins forgiven… All debts repaid… I promise."

She fell back, her slim frame trembling with Lucifer's laughter as he took control once more. Enjolras picked Dark Sister up, the weapon deadweight in his hands, the rain of ice slicing at his cheeks.

He would lose her, but a new world would be won. A world without the Morningstar.

_Let her become the sea, _Orpheus whispered in his mind.

Sometimes, you had no choice but to be brave. Brave enough to let go.

Brave like she would want him to be.

Enjolras tackled Éponine to the ground. He straddled her hips, raising Dark Sister above his head.

"_You would never," _Lucifer crooned.

"Watch me," said Enjolras tightly, and he brought the blade down.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	15. Over the Sea to Sky

**Notes: **Finally, the conclusion. I apologize for the long, long wait, and I hope this finale is worth it. Thank you all for your patience, for your support and enthusiasm, and for giving this ridiculous AU a chance. If you want to read more of my fics, do check out my master list at youarethesentinels on Tumblr. For the beautiful (and painful) graphics, mixes, and meta that talented people have made for this story, head on over to my "fic: season unending" tag. It's been an exhilarating journey, and I'm glad I got to share it with all of you.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Over the Sea to Sky**

* * *

The worst thing about the ungraceful state was this: you knew it was happening. Part of you remained untouched, could only look on in horror as the demon forced your body into actions that were not your own, look on in terror as your mind opened for the possessor against your will, letting them in, letting them see the places of you that you tried so hard to keep locked away from everyone else.

Éponine was standing in a long, dark hallway. Moonlight shone through the windows, glowing silver on ornate tapestries and expensive portraits. Why was she here? She had promised herself that she would never return…

_You never left. _The languid voice echoed through the gloom, resounding from every corner all at once. _Not really. You made a new life somewhere else, but you always stayed here, didn't you? In the Chanvrerie._

"Where I was happy," Éponine whispered.

_That's the thing, my dear. _Lucifer chuckled, still unseen. _You knew what kind of family you had. You knew the sort of man your father was. But it took you so many years to do something about it, yes? Perhaps you're not as courageous as you think._

"I," said Éponine coldly, "am not the one hiding in somebody else's mind."

_Then let us see what else hides here. _The doors lining the hallway flew open in tandem, creaking on their hinges. _Move._

She moved; she had no choice, feet urged forward by an invisible, inexorable force, padding on the carpet as lightly as if she were a child again, laughing in the stillness of a summer night. She peered into the first room she came to, and regretted it immediately.

* * *

"_Where are you going?"_

_One leg slung over the windowsill, Éponine glances back to see Gavroche staring at her from the doorway, all freckled cheeks and wide blue eyes._

"_Shit," she mutters under her breath. She's seventeen years old, her hair in a ponytail, a knapsack dangling from one strap off her shoulder, heart pounding wildly and mind swimming with vague plans._

_To Gavroche, she says, "I'm leaving."_

"_When are you coming back?"_

_He sounds so plaintive, so lost, that she has to look away. She turns her gaze to the silver-green ground sprawled out below._

"_You know I'm not coming back, Gav."_

"_I'll…" He trails off, and she doesn't have to see him to know he's clenching his fists. "I'll sound the alarms. You won't make it past the gates."_

_She laughs, harsh and unsurprised. "Watch me."_

_And she jumps._

* * *

Éponine squinted at the memory, and it became clear to her, all the things that she'd been too young and too impetuous to notice. Gavroche's words warned her that he would alert the estate, but the crack in his voice said, _Please don't leave me. _She was only realizing it now, because, back then, she'd been mad at him for worshipping their father so blindly.

She edged away from the room. Somewhere, Lucifer was clucking his tongue.

_You abandoned your siblings to their fate. Éponine Thénardier, always so shameless, always so selfish._

"Aren't you supposed to be fighting a war, or something?" she snapped. "Let's just cut the pseudo-psychoanalytical bullshit."

_But I'm having too much fun. This is all part of possession, _he purred. _I'm taking everything. Next room, if you please, mademoiselle._

* * *

_Another doorway, another life. Joly gingerly hands her a bowl of hot chicken noodle soup before beating a hasty retreat, as if the air in her apartment crawls with germs. Which it probably does._

"_I didn't even know demons could get the flu," Éponine mutters, nudging the front door shut with her foot. She carries the bowl to her and Enjolras' bedroom, where Azelma is making faces at a pitiful golden-haired lump of blankets and crumpled tissue paper._

"_Go watch TV," Éponine tells her sister, and the child complies, skipping back into the den with an air of smug satisfaction._

"_You do realize she's punishing you for not reading to her while _she _was sick, don't you?" Éponine remarks, perching on the side of the mattress._

"_I was busy," Enjolras snarls, glaring at her through bleary eyes._

"_And now you've caught her bug," she says. "Fair's fair."_

_He sneezes violently in response. When he raises his head, his complexion is gray at the edges, like he's seconds away from throwing up. Again._

"_I'm going to die, Éponine," he moans._

"_Have some soup first," she offers. "It's bad form to die on an empty stomach."_

"_I don't want soup." There's a bit of a whine to his voice, no matter how clogged it sounds._

_She leans over and kisses him. His lips, dry and fever-burnt, part in surprise, but his hand comes up to automatically curl fingers at her cheek. It's now instinct to him, this gesture, like the way she ruffles his hair when he lays his head on her lap. Before he can respond properly to the kiss, though, she pulls away and takes advantage of the situation to spoon soup into his open mouth._

"_There." She smirks. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"_

"_I liked the other thing better," he says, reaching for her again._

* * *

Éponine clapped a hand over her mouth, willing the feel of her own skin to erase the ghostly sensation of Enjolras' lips. The chime of the Morningstar's laugh tangled with the moonlight.

_The most common personal failing, _he drawled, _in all the realms. How eager we are to give our hearts away. We forget that love is the providence of Ishtar. We forget that Ishtar is always cruel._

"Get out of my head," said Éponine.

_Next room, _was his only reply.

And, in the next room, Éponine saw Jehan again, four years younger, strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a loose braid.

"Hey." He was smiling, not at a memory of her, but directly at her, his gray eyes shining in the angel light. "Pretty cool place, huh?"

Éponine glanced around. They were in the basement of Templar headquarters.

"I'm Jean Prouvaire." He stuck out a hand. "But you can call me Jehan."

_Look, you stupid little girl, _whispered the voice of the Morningstar. _This is the face of one who died for you. Who _burned _for you. Were you even worth it?_

Éponine blinked, and suddenly there was a throwing knife in Jehan's hand. That wasn't right, was it? Four years ago, she'd simply shaken his hand and introduced herself.

"Take it," Jehan said, calm and achingly gentle. "Take my love, too."

Éponine took the knife and retreated from the room. She continued down the hallway of her childhood summerhouse as Lucifer laughed in dark amusement. She still couldn't see him, but he sounded so much closer than ever before.

When she peered into the next doorway, she saw Azelma. Not as she'd been the day she died, but whole and rosy-cheeked in the apartment on the corner of Requiem and Bone.

"Blood of my blood," Azelma said, small-voiced and solemn-eyed. "Sister. Mother I never knew. The bad man is coming. Be ready."

"Was it my fault?" Éponine asked. "If I had returned you to the family, could you have been saved? If I hadn't let go of your hand on the last day of the war, would you still be alive?"

The child didn't say anything. Éponine could hear footsteps in the corridor.

"Tell me," she whispered.

Finally, Azelma shrugged. "Love is everlasting."

The world exploded into fire and heat and smoke.

* * *

Lucifer, first of the Fallen, had forgotten just how entertaining it was to possess a human. Their minds were young and naïve, but also layered with a certain… richness. They felt too many things at once, dreamed and hoped so brightly that downfall was all the more painful. He had seen this, too, among the demons who returned to Dis after the Schism, those who had spent too long a time on the surface world. Humanity was contagious.

The girl ran down the burning hallway, but stopped once he appeared in front of her, flames nipping at her heels.

"So we come to this, the last," Lucifer crooned, savoring the panic and despair in her eyes, savoring the thrill of the tiny moments before she gave up completely. He was going to make her _hurt._

"Fire of my blood." His taunting sneer mocked the old words from her old love, love long gone. "The air in my lungs. You. Always…"

He spotted the knife too late. She hurled it at him, the blade gleaming in the embers and the moonlight, and it soared straight into his ribcage.

Lucifer staggered back, surprised, and then Éponine was upon him, the hopelessness and fear on her expression replaced by pure rage.

"How _dare _you!" she screamed. "That was _mine!" _Her fist slammed into his jaw, and, as he reeled, it was followed by another punch, and another, and another._ "_That _meant _something to me! You can't take that away!" Her anger was terrible to behold as it filled the world and her blows rent his bones. _"Get out!"_

* * *

The rain had stopped. The gunblade was bearing down upon her, glowing as blue as Enjolras' wet eyes. If she timed it just right, Lucifer would be badly wounded, and she could live, she could…

Éponine gritted her teeth and pushed Lucifer from her mind. The agony was unbearable, like being split into two, and, when the smoke cleared, his body was hovering on top of her, torso impaled by Dark Sister, which was only a few centimeters away from piercing her own chest.

The Morningstar rolled away, howling in fury and in pain. The back of Éponine's throbbing head met the concrete as she gasped for breath, gaze full of sky and hellfire.

"Éponine." Enjolras cradled her face in his hands. His fingers trembled against her cheeks. "Is it really… I thought I…"

"It's me," she confirmed, still dazed, brushing away a lock of golden hair that had fallen into his eyes. "I came back."

A visible shudder went through him. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers, the actions of someone who had been mere seconds from collapsing completely. "You," he mumbled, his voice hoarse with relief. "Always you."

She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight. And then, amidst those war-torn streets, amidst the rattle of gunfire and the red-gold glow of distant explosions, in all that air that smelled of rain and ashes, his lips found hers, giving her what he once would not. He was kissing her, broken boy under a broken sky, the tears on his lashes staining the tops of her cheeks, and it was just as fiercely sweet as she remembered, just as all-consuming, and, when she kissed him back, it felt like forgiveness.

Like coming home.

A blast of hellfire hit the ground a few inches away. They broke apart, twisting in bodies that were already crying out at the loss of contact. Lucifer stood over them, Dark Sister still buried deep in his stomach, ichor dripping from the wound.

"Well played." His breath was unsteady, his tone carrying only a little of his usual languidness. "But this invasion has been years in the planning, and I will not let this little love affair stop me." He glanced up, and smiled. "Ah, speaking of love- there you are, beautiful one."

The Queen of Lust descended, red hair streaming in the wind. She positioned herself in front of Lucifer, a deadly-looking lance in her hands, watching Enjolras and Éponine with calculating silver eyes.

Éponine tried to scramble to Enjolras' side, but he stopped her with a glare. "Stay back," he warned.

Lucifer chuckled. He pulled the gunblade out by its hilt, and carelessly tossed it aside. "How noble, but you are both going to die, anyway."

A few Templars and New Advent soldiers noticed their predicament and rushed to their aid, but a ring of ice spikes suddenly blossomed around the scene, preventing anyone from coming near. Éponine saw Belial, the King of Vainglory, floating in the air, observing the events with rapt fascination.

Ishtar glanced at Éponine. To Lucifer, she said, "Are you sure you don't want this one to live, my lord? She exorcised you from her own mind, without the ritual. She's interesting. It seems almost a pity."

"I have indulged your pity far too many times," snapped Lucifer. "First it was Orpheus, and then it was that Untitled wretch, and now this?"

"It seems to me," said Ishtar, "that exiling the Untitled wretch was the greatest thing I ever did for you. He squealed to the Templars, and that was what gave you legal grounds for declaring war, wasn't it? Perhaps you knew I would do such a thing, and that is why you sent me out into the Waste Lands to look for rebel survivors."

Lucifer didn't bother to deny the accusation. Instead, he told her, "You are not Astarte anymore."

"Hmm." Ishtar tipped the lance in her hands. "I think I was Astarte when Orpheus sang. I think I was Astarte when Lamarque spoke to me on his deathbed."

Lucifer sneered. "What good has being the Evening Star done? Tammuz is dead, died thousands of years ago, died screaming, like all those you've ever loved. You can't bring them back."

Resignation dulled the light in Ishtar's eyes. Éponine braced herself for the final attack, watching the war goddess approach.

But, once she had put some distance between herself and Lucifer, Ishtar stopped walking. "I just have one more question, my lord," she said, her back still turned to him.

Lucifer sighed with barely concealed impatience. "By all means."

"How many miles to Babylon?" Ishtar asked.

And she whirled around, as quick as lightning, and she plunged the tip of her lance into Lucifer's chest.

A hush gradually fell over the battlefield. All eyes turned to the sight of the Morningstar's most loyal driving her weapon deeper into him, driving it home, lifting him off his feet as it skewered his heart.

"I broke the Throne before I left," Ishtar said coldly, staring into her sovereign king's eyes as dark ichor gurgled from his pale mouth. "No more Limbo. No more oaths. I guessed that you had something to do with vestal light and Bonaparte's death, but my suspicions were never confirmed until you ordered this invasion. I waited too long to act, and that will always be my regret. But I'm making up for it now." Hellfire erupted all around her, a blazing conflagration that devoured Belial's ice spikes, that danced along her lance and sliced into Lucifer's wounds. "Long live General Lamarque."

Lucifer died, became the king of ashes, his amethyst eyes clouded over with betrayal. Love was always cruel, after all.

* * *

It was surprisingly easy to clear out the Chanvrerie, since most of the syndicate goons had been marshaled by Valjean and Fantine to join the battle, and what few remained immediately fled at the sight of a Templar and two angels wielding glowing swords and guns.

But Courfeyrac, Marius, and Cosette had run into an unexpected complication.

Old man Thénardier had renovated the interior of the Chanvrerie. From the outside, it looked like a normal two-storey house, but once you went in, there was a narrow hallway which led to a huge, heavy metal door, riddled with several security keypads.

"We could blow it up," Courfeyrac suggested.

"Vestal light is highly volatile," murmured Cosette. "Who knows how close the supplies are to the entrance? We might set off a chain reaction."

Marius raised his hand to the topmost keypad, but was stopped by a scratchy, mischievous drawl. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. The whole place is rigged to blow if you get three combinations wrong."

They turned around to see a scrawny, surly-looking teenage boy leaning casually against the wall, hands jammed into the pockets of an ill-fitting suit.

"What kind of teenager goes around wearing suits in the middle of a war?" Courfeyrac demanded.

The boy smirked. "The Thénardier heir, that's who."

Marius, who had spent countless hours poring over the Five Family dossiers, widened his eyes in recognition. "Gavroche."

"At your service."

"Look, kid," said Courfeyrac, pasting on his most charming smile, "we need vestal light to get rid of the demonic forces currently swarming all over New Advent. Let's help each other out here, shall we?"

"I would rather help myself," Gavroche said airily. "So what if the demons win? My family's in good with them. They might even get rid of Valjean and Fantine, paving the way for _my _empire's continued expansion."

"Your sister is out there," Cosette said in a soft voice.

Gavroche's expression darkened. "I don't have any sisters. Not anymore."

Courfeyrac's heart went out to the boy. He knew what it was like at that age, to be so full of anger, so eager to prove yourself, so alone and starved for love. But he also knew that there were some kids on whom gentle coaxing almost never worked.

"This is what's going to happen," he said, his index finger pointed at the nearest keypad. "I'm going to enter in three wrong combinations and blow this place sky-high, taking out a major portion of your family's livelihood, all for nothing. Or you're going to input the _right _combinations, and help us use a major portion of your family's livelihood to stop an invasion. And save your sister's life in the process. She's out there now, Gav. She's fighting demons so you will never have to live under their shadow."

Gavroche opened his mouth to retort, but Courfeyrac cut across him, allowing a little harshness to seep into his tone. "And don't you _dare_ tell me she's not your sister. We're at war, kid! The things that happened before- they don't _matter _anymore, you know? Not when it's like this." And he found himself thinking of Jehan, what Jehan had looked like when they said their goodbyes. "People I love have left me, too, but you don't see _me _holding it against them. Because, sometimes, what's personal isn't what's important."

The adults waited with bated breath, until, finally, the teenager pushed off from the wall and approached the locked door. He avoided Courfeyrac's eyes as he punched in the combinations, but, right before keying in the last digit, he muttered, "Tell Ep I miss her."

* * *

During the ferocious airborne fight that ensued, Musichetta had managed to wind her sickle's chain around Alecto's neck. The angel now had the Fury in a stranglehold, even as bloodied feathers fell from her own wings, which were so badly injured by Alecto's sharp claws that she was barely able to stay aloft.

Alecto was tugging at the chain, trying to loosen it, but she suddenly froze, and let out a bone-chilling shriek of anguish.

Musichetta turned to the horizon, and then blinked at the flashes of light she saw there, dancing above the shimmering green-glass skyline. Dis was raising its insignias. A black serpent was disappearing into the hooked beak of a bronze eagle.

"The Morningstar is dead," Alecto gurgled. "Belial has assumed command."

"'Chetta!" Joly was waving his arms at her as he tottered unsteadily on a nearby ledge. "Courfeyrac just called in. The Chanvrerie is clear; we have to go now!"

"Go on," whispered Alecto. She sounded almost encouraging. "My lord is dead. My sisters are dead. The ages have passed me by."

Musichetta stared at the Fury's back. And then she pulled the chain, sharply, with all her strength, yanking upward. The silver constricted around the ancient throat, snapped the ancient neck. Musichetta let go of her sickle, and watched Alecto the Implacable, daughter of Earth, the first to weep, plummet to the ground below.

* * *

"What happened?" Combeferre asked as he and Feuilly burst through the open doorway of the Chanvrerie, into a room full of crates of vestal light that shed an ethereal glow into the air as they simmered in their vials. "We saw the insignias change! Who killed Lucifer?"

Bossuet shrugged. "We don't know yet."

"It was Ishtar," said another voice. All eyes snapped to the new arrivals as they staggered inside. Enjolras was bleeding heavily, his arm around Éponine's shoulders as she held him up.

Marius frowned in puzzlement. "The Courtesan defected?"

"She's a double agent," Enjolras replied. "Or she turned double agent at the last second. I don't know." He disentangled himself from Éponine and hobbled over to a table covered with maps of the city that the others had been busy marking.

"Your brother was the one who let us in," Courfeyrac informed Éponine in an undertone.

She shook her head in disbelief. "I never thought he'd have it in him. Where is he now?"

"He mentioned something about an underground bunker…"

"I know that place," she said. "The panic room. They're probably all hiding down there. It's just as well. War is no place for a child."

With that, she turned her attention to the impromptu council.

"So Lucifer and Baal are dead," Cosette said meditatively. "Ishtar has defected. That leaves Belial, Mammon, Nemesis, Beelzebub, and Aergia."

Combeferre tapped his chin. "If we could take them and their generals out in one fell swoop…" He glanced around the room, an idea forming in his mind. "If we could lead them _here…"_

"We can detonate the place!" said Feuilly. "With hellfire, with vestal light, with man-made explosives… Not even the Seven can survive an explosion of that magnitude."

Enjolras frowned. "How do we lure them here?"

Courfeyrac felt something nudge at his mind, felt someone else's look out through his own. Before he could even cry out in surprise, Ishtar rode his mind to the surface, and left it just as quickly, appearing in the middle of the room in a flash of hellfire.

"Did someone say _lure?" _The Queen of Lust's lips curved in a wicked, intoxicating grin. In her arms she carried the head of Orpheus.

* * *

They quickly got to work, piling the crates of vestal light into several concentrated heaps in order to produce the biggest possible explosion.

"This thing's a masterpiece," said Courfeyrac, staring up at the wall of wood and glass in awe.

Combeferre squinted. "It almost looks like…"

"A barricade," Enjolras finished for him, nodding in satisfaction. "To open the way."

After they were done rigging bombs in every possible corner of the Chanvrerie, they retreated to the woods outside the house.

Joly watched Ishtar, who was deep in conversation with Enjolras and Marius. "Are you sure we can trust her?"

"She killed the Morningstar," said Feuilly in wry tones. "If that doesn't get her your vote of confidence, I don't know what will." He touched the thorn-tree mark on his face. "I now know why she didn't kill me. Despite what she said then, she thought exile would be kinder. Ishtar is the goddess of war, but Astarte… In the old myths, Astarte was the Queen of Heaven. The goddess of mercy."

Ishtar passed the head of Orpheus to Marius. "It's decided," she announced to the group at large. "The angel will serve as bait."

Cosette rushed forward, as if she were about to protest, but Marius stopped her with a gentle smile. "The demons' wings are injured. So are Musichetta's. We need the fastest flier, one who can get away in time."

"You _will _get away in time," said Cosette, her eyes searching his freckled face, "won't you?"

In response, Marius bent down and kissed her on the cheek, before walking back to the Chanvrerie. He hesitated when he passed by Éponine, and their gazes caught.

She blew out a breath. "It would never have worked between us, anyway."

As far as jokes went, it was weak, and more awkward than amusing, but the two of them laughed. Sometimes, laughing was all you could do.

* * *

Marius positioned himself on the steepled roof, painfully conscious of the bombs below. "Are you ready?" he asked Orpheus.

"Yes," the demon replied, "but there is something I must ask of you."

"What is it?"

"Drop me. When they come, make your escape, but drop me into the explosion."

Marius' brow creased. "I don't…"

"I have lived too long," Orpheus whispered. "Far longer than I should have. They took my eyes and I can no longer see into the future. No one needs me anymore. But, if I perish, there is one thing I can see, and that's her. I am tired. I just want to see Eurydice again. Do you understand?"

"But-"

"I follow the footsteps of one who came before me," said Orpheus in implacable tones. _"Apothanein thelo."_

The words of the Sibyl at Cumae, which had been carved into the walls of the Temple of the Dead.

_I want to die._

At last, Marius nodded. "Very well." He raised his arms, lifting the head of the demon into the air. "One last song, son of dreams."

* * *

The song of Orpheus echoed throughout New Advent. It was a hymn of challenge, of defiance. From all around the city, the Kings and Queens of Dis took flight, followed by their generals, laughing and screaming as they traced the sound. The furious army descended on the Chanvrerie, tearing the air with wings and battle cries.

As they plunged down to the roof where the angel stood, the melody suddenly changed.

Beelzebub faltered. "I've heard this before," he said to Mammon. "In Atlantis. Don't you remember?"

"_Now!" _Enjolras shouted from the trees. He and Combeferre blasted hellfire at the house, just as Feuilly pressed the button which set off the bombs.

Marius took wing as the Chanvrerie detonated beneath his feet. He careened into the air, fueled by the momentum of the blast. The legions wailed and writhed as they were ripped apart by vestal light, and he hurled Orpheus into the heart of the explosion, and still Orpheus' lips moved and the song continued, a plea to return all that had been lost, a lament for sea and sky.

* * *

The breeze carried ashes into the woods, where the group flocked around Marius, clapping him on the back. He was shaking, pale-faced, but his eyes softened and lit up when Cosette flung herself into his arms.

"Is it really over?" Bossuet wondered out loud.

"I didn't see Nemesis and her legion," muttered Ishtar. "Then again, she was always the smart one." She raised an imperious hand into the air, and insignias unfurled in the heavens above, the crimson rose of Lust wrapping its thorns around the bronze eagle of Vainglory, the golden caduceus of Greed, the swarming flies of Gluttony, and the horned ram of Sloth.

Another blaze of light illuminated the horizon. It seemed to be coming from over Chinatown. It was the black crescent moon of Envy, which then flashed silver, in surrender.

* * *

They made their way back to the main city, and the next few hours were spent helping the injured and those trapped underneath rubble, as well as mourning the dead. Enjolras' frown grew deeper with every corpse he saw- human or demon, it didn't matter anymore. Too many lives had been lost.

The first stars glowed faintly overhead as Valjean and Fantine extracted Javert from underneath a crumbled pillar. He glared at them as he dusted himself off.

Fantine smiled sweetly. "It seems to me, Mister President, that you have a lot on your plate. Reconstruction, seeking for repatriations, and what not. Surely you have no time to chase after a drug pusher? Especially one who mobilized the civilian militia that held fast at Ghost Avenue?"

"Wipe that smug grin off your face!" Javert poked a finger at Valjean's chest. "I'm giving you three days' head start, and no more!"

Valjean shrugged. "Three days are all I need."

A few feet away, Éponine jumped to the side to avoid a portion of roof that came toppling down. She crashed into a strong, warm frame, which automatically held her by the arms.

She didn't look at Enjolras, but she allowed her cheek to rest against his chest, allowed herself this one last small thing, before she stepped away.

"I'll never be able to separate you from her, you know," she told the air, refusing to even glance in his direction. "Whenever I look at you, I will always see that moment. The day she died."

"I know," was his solemn reply. "But, as long as you remain safe, as long as you have a chance to be happy, and to live, then it is acceptable to me. I can lose you like this."

She walked away from him, and, somehow, even after all that had happened, it was the hardest thing she had ever done.

* * *

Ishtar knew she would never be able to win a staring contest against Nemesis, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to try. The remaining legions looked from one Queen to the other in trepidation, as New Advent glowed green in the night.

"I always knew," drawled Nemesis, "that you and I would outlive them all. We were never like them."

"So who rules now?" Ishtar snapped.

"Over a ruined kingdom with half its populace gone?" Nemesis sniffed. "It's all yours, dear."

Enjolras and Combeferre pushed their way to the front of the crowd. The two Queens each raised a perfectly-arched eyebrow in tandem.

"Ladies," said Enjolras, as Combeferre patted his shoulder supportively, "if we could perhaps interest you in an alternative form of government-"

He didn't get much further than that. There was a rumbling from above, like thunder, and everyone looked up as ethereal white light broke through the evening skies. Snowy feathers and fiery eyes filled the world as a host of angels descended, their marble-like beauty eliciting gasps of wonder from the humans while the demons' expressions soured.

A dark-haired Seraphim came forward. "Greetings," he said, his gaze on Ishtar because Nemesis had slunk back into the shadows with an enigmatic smile. "I am-"

"I know who you are," Ishtar said boldly, crossing her arms. "What I don't know is what brings you here, Lord of the Fifth Heaven."

"I have come to discuss terms of transfer," replied the archangel Samael. "With the fall of the Morningstar and the Isis Throne, the old oaths have been destroyed. Dis reverts to the possession of the Silver City."

Combeferre turned to Enjolras. "Don't," he warned, but he was too late.

"Well, isn't that convenient?" Enjolras yelled. "You just reclined back in your fluffy little clouds and watched as the two other realms were torn apart, but it's all worked out in your favor in the end, hasn't it?"

Samael stared at Enjolras. "Who is this?" he asked Ishtar out of the corner of his mouth.

Ishtar grinned widely. "Your problem, not mine."

"Allow me to explain," said Combeferre in calm yet bright tones. "What you will be taking over is, in fact, a realm in an anarchic situation due to a failed revolt and a lost war. The power structure has been greatly tampered with, and society is in upheaval. Can you _imagine _the administrative headache? You will be faced with many rebellious elements." Beside him, Enjolras' glower left no room for doubt as to exactly who and his ilk would comprise those elements. "Not to mention the fact that New Advent is, as of the moment, not very well-disposed towards a State that failed to help them in their time of need. Unless, of course, the humans who saved their own city can speak for your government's intentions-"

"No way!" shouted Courfeyrac from up ahead, but he was immediately hushed by Éponine.

Combeferre continued, unperturbed, "-and perhaps one who still has power in Dis can bring the people to heel."

A muscle ticked along Samael's jaw. "What are you saying?"

Ishtar picked up where Combeferre left off. "Nemesis of Envy has no desire to rule. For all intents and purposes, in the eyes of the Untitled and the remaining legions, _I _am the High Queen of Dis. I speak for them, and this is what I say: We will agree to the Silver City's terms. If you agree to ours."

"And what are these terms of yours, pray tell?" Samael demanded coldly.

Ishtar and Combeferre turned to Enjolras.

His blue eyes gleamed. "The hierarchy in Dis will be abolished," he said slowly. "No more titles. There will be elections, popular rule. Greater social mobility for all. Dis will belong to the Silver City, but its administration will be left up to its own citizens." A smile began to grow on his lips. "The Metatron agents who opened the portal and ignored the recall will not be punished. Will, in fact, be promoted, for actions of valor that helped save an entire race." He took a deep breath. "And the Silver City will exercise its dominion over the Void. Everyone who died during the rebellion, all the lost souls in Limbo, will be brought back. If they want to be."

The celestial spheres churned in Samael's eyes. Finally, he said, "I must consult with my superiors."

* * *

It was early morning in the City of Dis. The grassy plains of Nineveh clamored with activity as demons climbed out of the black chasm that had materialized in the air. Grantaire and Bahorel were the last ones to emerge.

"Man, _fuck _Aergia," snarled Grantaire. "I thought she would go easy on me." He shook his head, looking a little bit worse for wear, but otherwise simply bewildered. "I don't recall anything at all from our time in Limbo. It really is _nothingness,_ isn't it? What's the last thing you remember?"

Bahorel inhaled a huge lungful of fresh air, savoring the feeling. He smiled. "Glory."

Grantaire clapped him on the back, and they went off to look for their friends.

* * *

"You realize, of course, that this is _highly _irregular." A pale, gaunt demon dressed in black sniffed as he glared admonishingly over a long scroll of parchment. "Usually, petitions take years to process, and, had it not been for the intervention of the Evening Star, I would _never _have considered-"

"Shut up, Hades," Enjolras growled.

The Lord of Death desisted, albeit a little peevishly. They had let him keep his bureaucratic title, because, honestly, who the hell would want his job? He rolled up the scroll. "Remember," he warned the newly-resurrected human in front of him, "six months on the surface, six months here below. Those are the rules. If you break them, you go back to the Valley of the Dead."

Jehan nodded, wide-eyed.

Courfeyrac squeezed his hand. "It'll be cool," he declared with assurance. "We'll be, like, a glamorous jet-setting couple. The sort you see in tabloids."

"Couple?" Jehan repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Courfeyrac shrugged. "You know, if you want."

Jehan grinned. "Yes," he said, laughing. "Yes, okay."

Éponine peered into the mists of the Valley. Try as she might, she couldn't see anyone else coming forth.

"It happens," Hades told her. "Sometimes, they… have suffered too much. Sometimes, they don't want to come back."

She nodded, barely hearing his words. The fragile hope that had been blossoming in her chest withered into ashes on her tongue.

Enjolras touched her shoulder, a gesture of mute, helpless comfort. She ignored him.

"Hey, look," said Courfeyrac, pointing with the hand that was not in Jehan's.

A ray of brilliant, dewy light streamed through the clouds, falling somewhere deep beyond the mountains. As the group watched, a small, long-haired figure rose up from the Valley, little wings fluttering on her back. She stretched out her arms, and they were grasped by two other winged figures who had also appeared.

"Oh," Éponine said softly as Marius and Cosette helped Azelma ascend, murmuring words of encouragement all the while. They were too far away, but, somehow, Cosette seemed to wink at the people on the ground, the smug wink of one who had pulled a _lot _of strings, and it had paid off.

Enjolras' hand had not left Éponine's shoulder. They both gazed up at the heavens.

"I love you," he said softly, and she didn't know if he was saying it to her or to Azelma, but she echoed the words as well, as she watched her sister disappear in a flash of angel light.

* * *

It was two months later, and Feuilly and Éponine were washing dishes at the sink, when the doorbell of the apartment that they shared with Jehan and Courfeyrac- for half the year, at least- rang.

"Want me to get it?" Feuilly asked, already starting to rinse his hands.

Éponine smiled. She was a lot nicer to him these days, because exile was exile and it had to suck for him, never being able to return to the land where he grew up. But he seemed content, for the most part, especially when Joly and Bossuet came over to watch _Estelle et Némorin. _Sometimes they brought Musichetta in tow, when she was visiting.

"I'll do it," said Éponine. "Gavroche probably forgot something."

"It better not be his firearm," Feuilly called good-naturedly to her retreating back. "Honestly, _what _does a teenager need with an Akdal Ghost TR-01, I'll never know."

"He just wants to make sure you put extra cheese in the macaroni whenever he drops by for lunch," Éponine retorted, wiping her wet hands on her jeans.

She opened the door, and groaned. "Why are you all here?"

"Surprise!" Bahorel, Grantaire, and Combeferre yelled in tandem, bounding into the living room.

"Your apartment has been assigned the honor of hosting our political meetings," Combeferre informed her. "And, before you ask, yes, Enjolras will be along shortly."

"Meetings for what?" Éponine snapped.

"Independence, baby!" Bahorel's fist punched the air. "Dis will be free of those tyrant angels, come what may!"

"They're not exactly tyrants if Ishtar is your president, you know," Éponine pointed out.

"But we are technically still a colony," Combeferre countered. "An unacceptable state of affairs."

"Just go with it," Grantaire muttered in Éponine's ear. "It gives them something to do."

Éponine huffed. "I don't see why you have to hold your meetings _here."_

"Funny you should say that," said Combeferre, "because I posited that exact same thing. However, Enjolras was particularly adamant about the need to conduct the crime of sedition beyond State borders, so that there would be plenty of legal loopholes to slip through."

Éponine was seconds away from stomping her foot. "But why _here? _In _this _apartment?"

Bahorel grinned. "It was the only place the chief would agree to." He coughed. "I mean, of course, because it's _so _convenient, being so near the portal and all…"

The demons flocked to the kitchen, which was soon echoing with glad cries as they reunited with Feuilly. Éponine sighed, and was about to shut the door, when she met resistance in the form of a hand bracing itself against the wood.

Éponine turned her nose up at the new arrival. "You're late for your own meeting."

Enjolras nodded. "I had to drop by the Basilica and explain to a very infuriated Javert why it was perfectly aboveboard for Valjean to seek asylum in Dis."

"And, let me guess, Javert got even _more _infuriated."

His smirk was answer enough. She rolled her eyes. "You really do like making people angry, don't you?"

"Not everyone in equal measure," he replied. "You're still my favorite."

They regarded each other in silence for a while, content merely to look, to reassure themselves with the simple fact of presence, at the end of it all. She realized that she'd missed him.

"May I…?" Enjolras finally asked, in a tentative voice, gesturing to the door. Or maybe at her.

Éponine breathed out the weight of the past years. "Sure," she said.

She opened the door wider, and let him in.

* * *

**The End**

* * *

Postscript:

You deserve this :)

Love,

Thea


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